I 


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Miii!iniilil!iil!i 


S£flJHA/iD  SitrUA 

BOOK  STORE 
HO  PACIFIC  AYXSUM 
LQKQ  MKACM.  CAU9. 


ANNIE   DEANE 


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ANNIEDEANE 


A'F'Sldde 


NewYork 
'Brent  otto's 

_l _ 

A  A  Jl  AAA 


Press  ofT.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


L'Rt '  f  i -^  z: -^ 'T.  *-v -> 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Where  the  Weed  Grew 7 

II    Alas  ! 12 

III    "Good-Bye!" 19 

IV    "I  Must  Hold  My  Tongue" 25 

V    Jim's  Mother 31 

VI    "I  Don't  Know" 35 

VII  "In  the  Dead,  Unhappy  Night"     ....  41 

VIII  The  Man  Who  Was  Not  a  Gentleman  ...  56 

IX    London 66 

X    "L.  A.  Le  Quesne"            75 

XI    The  Curate  of  St.  Saviour's 82 

XII     "God  Bless  It!" 97 

XIII  "What  is  This  Place?" 102 

XIV  "One  of  the  Hopeless  Sort" 112 

XV  "I'll  Call  Him  That,  or  Nothing  at  All"         .  117 

XVI  "But  if  That  Woman  Could  Live  to  Show  She 

Wasn't  Ruined?" 123 

XVII    The  First  Four  Years 135 

XVIII     The  Shadow  on  the  Turf 142 

XIX  "You  Have  an  Elder  Sister?"       ....  152 


Contents 

9 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XX  "Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  the  Famous  Tenor"     .     163 

XXI  "My  Crime's  the  Worst  to  Human  View"      .     177 

XXII  "The  Best  Voice  of  the  Lot"          ,        .        .191 

XXIII  Lin  Starts  Life  on  His  Own  Account      .        .     202 

XXIV  Back  Again  at  No.  19 214 

XXV    Annie  Has  Her  Own  Way 218 

XXVI    Lin  Has  His 228 

XXVII     "Mr.  Warrener" 235 

XXVIII  "In  a  Kingdom  by  the  Sea"       ....     243 

XXIX  "  Giving  Place  Unto  the  New  "...     247 

XXX  "My  Mother — Mr.  Le  Quesne"         .        .        .     262 

XXXI    Lin  Makes  a  Promise 274 

XXXII  "Will  You  Come  With  Me?"    .        .        .        .282 

XXXIII  "To  Make  the  Punishment  Fit  the  Crime"  .     294 

XXXIV  "I  Will  Repay" 301 

XXXV  For  Old  Acquaintance'  Sake     .        .        .        .310 

XXXVI    "After  Long  Years" 320 

XXXVII     Deserted 336 

XXXVIII  "  On  a  Long  and  Distant  Journey  "          .        .     356 

XXXIX     The  Two  that  are  Left 367 


ANNIE   DEANE 


ANNIE  DEANE. 

CHAPTER  I 

WHERE  THE  WEED  GREW 

"Surely  there  must  be  some  little  good  in  a  man  when  a 
pretty  bit  of  landscape  and  a  fine  day  are  sufficient  to  make 
him  glad  that  he  is  alive  ?  " 

The  question  was  addressed  to  himself  by  a  young  fellow  of 
one-and-twenty,  or  thereabouts,  who  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
Berkshire  wood  as  a  royal  August  day  was  drawing  to  a 
close. 

To  the  right  of  him,  to  the  left  of  him,  pine  trees ;  under- 
foot a  thick  carpet  of  dry  pine  needles,  shed  year  after  year, 
and  still  left  undisturbed.  He  sent  them  flying  now  with  a 
vigorous  shuffle  of  his  foot,  thus  sending  up  to  the  soft  air  a 
delicious  aromatic  scent. 

He  walked  on  a  few  paces,  stopped  to  look  about  him,  grew 
too  lazy  even  for  that,  and  flinging  himself  full  length  on  the 
brown  carpet,  soliloquised  afresh,  this  time  Byronically. 
Byron  usually  finds  favour  in  the  eyes  of  youth,  if  only  for  his 
magnificent  disdain  of  control. 

•*  Oh  I  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister." 

"  Well,  now,  I  wonder  if  he  ever  tried  it  ?  He  tried  most 
things.  I  don't  think  the  desert  would  be  any  improvement 
upon  this  wood.  Less  shady,  less  safe,  and  a  deuced  sight 
hotter !  Besides,  the  civilised  dinner-table  may  be  dispensed 
with  now  and  then,  but  I  should  not  care  to  do  away  with  it 
altogether.  Neither  would  the  'one  fair  spirit,'  if  I  know 
anything.    All  the  women  I  have  known  have  been  mindful  of 

7 


8  Hnnie  Deane 

their  creature  comforts,  and  very  unpleasant  if  they  were  not 
forthcoming  at  the  usual  hour.     Whew-w  !     I'm  very  thirsty." 

The  low  sun  piercing  the  trees  fell  on  our  soliloquist  a  trifle 
fiercely  ;  he  retreated,  and  lay  down  afresh  among  the  bracken. 
Not  a  sound  anywhere  but  the  sigh  of  a  rising  breeze  and  the 
slow  coo  of  a  wood-pigeon  overhead  where  tlie  branches  met. 

"  Could  anything  be  lovelier  ? "  he  inquired  tranquilly. 
"Who  the  dickens  wants  anything  but  peace  and  fine 
weather?" 

Apparently  he  wanted  something,  for  in  a  few  minutes  he 
had  scrambled  to  his  feet.  Even  a  philosopher  may  not 
disdain  hunger,  and  he  was  very  hungry ;  so  he  made  for  the 
sunny  grass-path  to  his  left.  He  would  go  on  to  the  village 
and  get  him  a  dinner  or  a  tea,  or  both  together,  for  he  was  not 
fastidious. 

At  the  end  of  the  path  was  a  narrow,  deep-rutted  road. 
The  village  might  lie  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  but  this  the 
wayfarer  was  inhospitably  left  to  find  out  for  himself. 

He  stood  to  consider ;  the  matter  was  urgent,  and  he  did 
not  wish  to  waste  time  by  taking  the  wrong  road. 

Just  then  a  voice  broke  the  golden  stillness,  a  young  voice, 
shrill  and  querulous : 

"No,  Tommy,  I  can't  let  you  carry  this.  It's  full,  and 
youll  slop  it  over.     It's  no  use ;  I  shan't,  so  there !  " 

He  turned  sharply — for  the  voice  was  behind  him — and  saw  a 
girl  holding  a  milk-can  out  of  reach  of  a  male  youngster,  who 
was  frantically  pulling  at  her  arm.  Finding  this  useless,  he 
turned  savage,  and  began  to  kick  her. 

"  Don't,  Tommy  ! "  she  cried ;  "  don't  I  Oh,  you  cruel  little 
beast!  I'll  tell  your  mother.  Oh,  what  pests  children 
arel" 

"  Now,  sir,  leave  off  kicking  there,  will  you  ?  You  young 
savage  I     By  George,  you  can  hurt  at  that  game  !  " 

The  boy  started,  then  stood  sulkily  still.  The  girl  started 
too,  and  being  red  with  pain  could  not  have  been  said  to  blush. 
She  dried  her  eyes  with  her  print  apron,  and  regarded  her 
rescuer  with  admiring  gratitude.  Too  awkward  to  thank  him, 
she  made  him  a  little  curtsey,  and  prepared  to  pass.  He 
stopped  her. 

"  Is  it  milk  you  have  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Been  far  for  it?" 

"  No,  sir,  only  to  Farmer  Smith's,  sir,  the  other  side  o'  the 
wood." 


Whctc  tbc  Wccb  (Brew  9 

"  If  I  were  to  drink  what  you  have  there,  could  you  get  some 
more  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  easy." , 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  gave  him  the  can.  It  was  a 
big  can.  The  girl's  eyes  were  big  too,  and  blue.  As  the 
young  fellow  prepared  to  drink,  he  felt  like  laughing.  Repress- 
ing this  inclination,  he  drank,  looking  at  the  girl  all  the  time 
over  the  edge  of  the  can,  while  she  looked  at  him.  When  he 
had  satisfied  his  thirst,  he  leisurely  took  out  his  handkerchief 
and  wiped  his  moustache. 

The  girl  dropped  her  eyes  and  laughed. 

«  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  only  reddened  furiously. 

"What's  the  matter?  "  repeated  he,  with  the  laughter  in  his 
eyes  that  he  forbade  his  mouth.  "  I  want  to  know  what  you 
laughed  at." 

"  Please,  sir,  I  can't  tell  you." 

*'  That's  awkward,  because  I  should  like  to  know.  Can  you 
tell  me  how  old  you  are  ?  " 

"  Seventeen,  sir." 

He  made  a  wry  face,  suggestive  of  scepticism,  and  Tommy 
showed  signs  of  animation. 

"  That  you  ain't,"  said  he.     "You  wus  on'y  sixteen — " 

Here  Tommy  received  a  sisterly  "cuff,"  and  lapsed  into 
silence. 

"  Come,  what  did  you  laugh  at  ?     Me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  please  I  can'f  tell  you,  and  are  you  going  to 
drink  all  that  milk  ?  Becos'  there  wus  a  pint  an'  a  half,  an'  it 
wus  threepence." 

"  Well,  tell  me  why  you  laughed,  and  I  will  give  you  a, 
shilling." 

Here  Tommy  showed  renewed  signs  of  animation. 

"  Go  on,"  said  he,  in  a  stage  whisper,  "  tell  'im." 

**  It  wusn't  nothink,"  stammered  the  girl.  "  I  on'y  thought 
as  I  wouldn't  like  to  drink  out  o'  that  can  after  you'd  dipped 
your  whiskers  in  it." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  object  to  my  moustache,"  said  he,  when  he 
had  regained  his  composure,  "  because,  do  you  know,  I  should 
rather  like  to  kiss  you." 

She  was  nothing  but  a  baby,  he  thought,  in  careless  amuse- 
ment, and  her  sunburnt  face  reminded  him  of  the  peaches  at 
home.  He  honestly  meant  her  no  insult,  as  he  gently — very 
gently— went  close  to  her  and  lifted  her  chia    She  coloured 


10  Hnnte  2)cane 

ruby-red,  and  dropped  her  eyes,  but  did  not  repulse 
him. 

"  Come  now,  I  saved  you  a  kicking.  Surely  that  is  worth  a 
kiss  ?  " 

She  stood,  trembling  a  little,  his  warm  hand  under  her  chin. 

"  It  was  worth  one,  now ;  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Y — yes,"  said  she  inaudibly. 

"  Then  you  must  pay."  Saying  which  he  Ufted  his  straw  hat 
and  bent  his  head. 

She  did  not  kiss  him,  but  she  permitted  him  to  kiss  her. 
He  did  so  lightly  enough,  first  on  one  cheek,  then  on  the 
other,  then  on  her  pretty  childish  mouth.  This  performance 
over,  he  felt  a  bit  embarrassed,  nodded  a  friendly  good-night  to 
her,  and  threw  himself  down  again  among  the  bracken.  The 
girl  went  back  to  the  farm  to  get  her  can  replenished. 

"  Let's  go  back  'long  the  road,"  said  Tommy. 

"  No,  I'm  goin'  back  the  way  we  come." 

Of  course,  it  was  not  singular  that  she  should  again  encounter 
her  new  acquaintance.  She  would  have  been  greatly  dis- 
appointed had  she  not  done  so.  He,  having  recovered  from 
his  embarrassment,  thought  he  might  ask  her  a  few  questions 
concerning  the  village  and  the  chances  of  accommodation  at 
the  village  inn. 

Having  given  him  what  information  she  could,  she  still 
seemed  disinclined  to  go  homeward  with  her  milk,  although 
Tommy  reminded  her  of  her  duty  by  periodical  and  vicious 
movements  of  his  elbow.  She  merely  edged  away  from  the 
child,  and  regarding  her  new  acquaintance  with  admiration, 
waited  patiently  in  the  hope  of  his  having  something  more 
to  say.  He,  lying  on  his  back  in  the  bracken,  and  relieved 
from  the  pangs  of  hunger  by  a  pint  and  a  half  of  milk,  was 
comfortable,  and  unwilling  to  snub  the  girl  by  sending  her 
away.  Besides,  she  was  a  picture  in  her  way ;  everything  was 
picturesque  as  seen  in  that  red  flood  of  sunlight — everything  but 
Tommy.  The  young  man  on  his  back  found  himself  looking 
about  for  the  metaphorical  equivalent  of  a  wet  brush  wherewith 
to  paint  Tommy  out.  Tommy,  however,  remained,  silent 
indeed,  but — obstructive.  Finding  the  situation  grow  embar- 
rassing, the  young  fellow  rose  to  his  feet  and  leaned  against  a 
tree. 

•  You  come  for  milk  every  night  ?  * 
•Yes,  sir." 

*  Do  you  always  bring — what's  his  name — Tommy  ?  " 
Ignorant  as  she  was,  the  woman-instinct  in  her  showed  her 


Mbere  tbe  Wictt>  (Brew  n 

the  meaning  of  that  dryly-spoken  question.  Also,  the  look 
which  accompanied  it  was  of  a  significant  character. 

"  No  ;  sometimes  I  comes  alone." 

"Ah  I     I  see.     About  the  same  time,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  near  about  seven." 

"  And  always  the  same  way  ?  "  He  was  taking  his  departure 
now,  walking  backwards,  leisurely. 

"  Oh,  yes,  'cept  when  I  goes  by  the  road." 

He  nodded,  with  his  eyes  looking  straight  into  hers,  and  his 
eyebrows — very  expressive  eyebrows — lifted.  Then  he  turned 
on  his  heel  and  sauntered  off,  laughing  to  himself  as  he  went. 

"  Jove  !  how  alike  they  are  !  "  he  thought  contemptuously. 
"  She's  nothing  but  a  h'd;  and  she's  as  ignorant  as  a  baby,  but 
— I'll  bet  she  looks  out  for  me  every  night  for  the  rest  of  the 
summer.  *  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad ! '  I  don't 
know  that  it  is  even  necessary  to  whistle.  What  pretty  eyes 
she  has  !  I  think  I  never  saw  such  blue  eyes  with  such  black 
pupils — like  a  big  drop  of  ink !  Just  for  a  lark  I  will  stay  over 
to-morrow,  to  see  if  she  comes." 

The  girl  herself  went  hurriedly  home  with  the  milk,  She 
had  hitherto  been  a  good  girl  and  truthful,  but  to-night  she 
went  into  the  first  shop  she  passed,  and  there  changed  her 
shilling  that  she  might  be  able  to  buy  Tommy's  silence 
concerning  the  stranger. 

"  Not  as  it  matters  if  he  told,"  thought  she,  "  but  mother  'd 
be  sure  to  say  I  hadn't  ought  to  'a  spoke  to  'im,  an'  she'd  stop 
me  goin'  for  the  milk.  I  believes  as  he  meant  he'd  be  there 
to-morrow.  P'r'aps  he  didn't,  but  I  shall  go,  an'  I  shan^t  take 
Tommy!' 


CHAPTER  II 

alas! 

She  went,  and  she  did  not  take  Tommy.  Her  new  acquaint* 
ance  watched  from  behind  a  tree  to  convince  himself  that  she 
really  came  to  look  for  him.  There  was  little  doubt  of  that,  so 
he  emerged  from  his  hiding-place,  a  trifle  sorry  for  having  come- 
Still,  being  there,  he  found  it  necessary  to  say  something,  so  he 
set  the  girl  talking  about  herself.  She  told  him  that  her  name 
was  Annie  Deane,  that  her  father  was  Dan'l  Deane,  and  worked 
on  Squire  Godden's  farm,  that  she  was  the  eldest  of  ten 
children,  and  that  the  baby  was  three  months  old.  She  said 
again  that  she  was  seventeen — seventeen  her  last  birthday,  and 
as  Tommy  was  not  there  to  contradict  her,  the  statement  was 
allowed  to  pass. 

Having  told  what  little  there  was  to  tell,  she  relapsed  into 
silence — a  silence  which  would  have  been  insupportable  but 
for  the  dumb  eloquence  of  the  blue  eyes  with  the  *'  big  drop  of 
ink  in  the  middle."  Something  in  the  young  man's  heart 
responded  to  that  dumb  eloquence.  Also,  his  own  eyes  had 
a  little  to  say,  and,  the  girl  stumbling  a  bit  over  the  pine  roots 
and  brambles,  he  put  his  arm  through  hers  to  steady  her.  In 
the  absence  of  a  chaperon,  or  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy, 
intercourse  between  two  youthful  people  of  this  sort  is  prone 
to  swift  development. 

Annie  got  the  milk,  had  it  carried  through  the  wood  for 
her,  stayed  long  enough  talking,  afterwards,  to  let  the  sun  go 
down,  and  to  make  her  mother  wonder  what  had  become  of 
her,  but  not  long  enough  to  elicit  any  mention  of  the  next  day. 

"  I'll  be  through  here  agen  to-morrow,"  said  she,  with  a  sort 
of  timid  recklessness. 

He  watched  her  glowing  face  and  laughed. 

"  Oh,  heaven  knows  where  I  shall  be  to-morrow,"  he  said 
lightly  ;  "  miles  away,  probably." 

But  the  next  day  found  him  in  the  same  place,  and  the 
next  evening  found  him  talking  to  Annie  Deane.  Why,  he 
could  not  have  told  you,  could  not  have  told  himself.    Ta 

12 


aias  z3 

begin  with,  he  honestly  meant  no  harm.  He  was  idlej  he 
had  two  or  three  weeks  to  kill  somehow,  because  he  was 
waiting  for  a  chum  with  whom  he  was  going  abroad  j  he  was 
supposed  to  be  on  the  tramp  —a  favourite  holiday  occupation 
of  his — and  he  had  come  to  a  sudden  and  unexpected  stand- 
still. This  was  all  he  knew.  A  girl's  blue  eyes,  and  a  want 
of  moral  courage  kept  him  at  a  standstill.  Every  ensuing  day 
found  him  in  earnest  contemplation  of  departure ;  every  even- 
ing found  him  strolling  through  the  wood,  waiting  for  Annie 
Deane.  Not  that  he  cared  two  straws  about  the  girl,  which 
made  things  all  the  worse.  In  fact,  he  cared  for  very  little, 
having  hitherto  found  little  worth  caring  for.  Even  his 
opinions  were  at  present  unformed,  hazy.  His  only  religion 
had  been  Self,  and  a  very  comfortable  religion  he  had  found  it 
It  may  be  that  Annie  Deane  had  some  attraction  for  him  on 
the  score  of  being  his  first  disciple. 

Also,  she  interested  him  because  there  seemed  to  be  more  in 
her  than  he  succeeded  in  drawing  out.  She  looked  intelligent, 
but  her  speech  did  not  confirm  her  look,  being  for  the  most 
part  slow  and  diffident.  The  childish  pertness  which  had 
amused  him  at  first  disappeared  as  they  saw  more  of  each 
other,  leaving  her  quiet,  but — as  the  young  fellow  thought — 
affectionate  ;  which  was  amusing,  if  a  little  tiresome. 

His  standard  of  womanhood  was  low.  He  lifted  his  hat  to 
a  woman,  or  opened  a  door  for  her  just  as  he  removed  the 
hat  upon  entering  a  house,  or  said  "Thank  you"  for  any 
service  rendered  him.  Custom  demanded  these  courtesies, 
and  "use  is  second  nature,"  but  reverence  in  the  one  case 
was  as  absent  as  gratitude  in  the  other.  He  saw  no  reason 
to  reverence  women.  Even  Annie  Deane  showed  him  that 
Evil  was  the  feminine  instinct,  and  not  Good.  Here  was 
a  girl,  brought  up  in  seclusion,  taught  nothing  but  right,  who 
yet  took  to  wrong  "  as  a  young  duck  to  water " ;  who  at  the 
first  sign  of  a  beckoning  hand,  followed  it,  caring  nothing  that 
it  beckoned  her  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  one  she  had 
soberly  taken  all  her  life.  The  young  cynic  feit  something 
like  a  pang  of  disappointment  or  regret  as  this  fresh  example 
confirmed  his  theory,  which  showed  that  deep  down  in  him, 
somewhere,  was  the  germ  of  a  nobler  faith. 

"Why  do  you  come  here  to  meet  me?"  he  asked  Annie, 
when  these  clandestine  meetings  had  been  going  on  for  more 
than  a  weeL 


M  Bnnie  Deane 

They  were  sauntering  through  the  wood,  she  with  the 
milk-can  which  served  as  a  blind. 

*•  You  ast'  me  to,"  responded  she  promptly. 

"  I  don't  think  I  did— quite." 

"  Well,  you  said  as  you  might  be  here." 

"  Did  I  ?    I  don't  remember." 

« I  do." 

"  I  say,  Annie,  you  must  be  used  to  this  sort  of  thing." 

"  What  sort  o*  thing  ?  " 

"  To  meeting  fellows  here." 

"  That  I'm  not  I "  she  said,  with  injured  vehemence. 

"  Has  a  man  ever  asked  you  to  meet  him  here  before  ?  ** 

"  Not  a  man — a  boy  have." 

"  What  boy  ?  " 

"Jim  Drake's  boy." 

"Who  is  Jim  Drake?" 

"The  blacksmith." 

"  Did  you  meet  young  Drake  ?  " 

"  Not  me  ! "  with  a  pout  and  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"Why?" 

"  Becos'  I  didn't  want  to." 

"  Oh  1  then  I  may  take  it  that  you  do  want  to  meet  me  ?  " 

Annie  hung  her  head. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  she,  instinct  teaching  her  to  avoid  absolute 
confession. 

Her  companion's  hand  slid  through  her  arm,  and  his  head 
bent  towards  hers. 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  wrong  to  meet  me  ?  " 

She  considered.  "We  don't  do  nothink  wrong,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"  Then  you  think  it  is  right?  " 

She  coloured  and  did  not  answer. 

"  You  tell  your  mother,  of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't" 

«  Why  ?  " 

"  Becos'  she'd  stop  me  comin'." 

"  Exactly  ;  so  you  see  you  do  know  it  is  wrong." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  ast  me  to  come,"  said  she,  rather 
grievously. 

"  That  is  one  to  you.  Well,  Annie,  we  must  allow  that  it  is 
wrong  for  you  to  meet  a  man  you  know  nothing  about." 

She  stopped,  and  turned  the  big  blue  eyes  on  him,  eagerly. 
"You  could  tell  me  who  you  are,  an'  then  I'd  know." 

He  laughed,  and  drew  her  on. 


Bias !  15 

"  What  is  your  private  impression  of  me  ?  For  what  do  you 
take  me  ?  " 

A  long,  long  pause. 

"  Come,  now,  for  what  do  you  take  me  ?  " 

"  I — I — takes  you  for — gentry." 

The  answer  tickled  him  so  much  that  he  stood  still  and 
shouted  with  laughter. 

"I  am  afraid  that  is  a  doubtful  compliment.  You  mean 
you  take  me  for  a  gentleman.     Why  ?  " 

"  Becos'  you  looks  like  them  as  stays  at  Lord  Kennarven's 
for  the  shootin'." 

"  Thank  you.  Well,  I  must  set  you  straight  if  you  think  I 
am  a  '  lord.'  I  am  not  even  connected  with  one,  as  far  as  I 
know.     And,  Annie,  1-o-j-d  spells  '  lord.' " 

"  I  knows  that." 

He  winced  at  the  superfluous  "  s."  "  But  you  make  it  '  lard.' 
Say  it  after  me." 

She  said  it  correctly. 

"  Don't  forget  that,  will  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  never  did  forget  it.  She  said  the 
word  correctly  to  the  end  of  her  life. 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  teach  you  English,  Annie,  but  at 
present  it  is  much  more  necessary  for  somebody  to  teach  me 
Italian." 

"What's  that?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  now.     It  would  take  too  long." 

"No,  it  wouldn't" 

"  Very  well.  Italian  is  the  language  of  the  people  of  Italy. 
Are  you  any  the  wiser  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.    "Why  should  you  want  to  learn  that?" 

"  I  really  could  not  make  you  understand." 

"  But  who  are  you  ?     Do  tell  me." 

"  You  are  a  very  woman,  and  curious.  I  have  told  you  I 
am  not  *  gentry.' " 

"  But  I  don't  believe  you." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Will  you  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  have 
to  earn  my  living  ?  " 

"  Go  along  with  you  ! "  said  the  girl  pettishly,  "  You're 
pokin'  fun." 

'*  I  am  not.  I  have  to  earn  my  living  just  as  surely  as  has 
your  father." 

"  That  ain't  true.     Why,  your  hands  is  like  any  lady's." 

"  Rather  brown  for  a  lady's  just  now,  Annie.  Still,  I  do 
not  expect  to  earn  my  living  with  my  hands.     Providence 


i6  Hnnie  Deane 

settled  my  '  calling '  without  any  trouble  to  me — ^gave  me,  so 
the  wise  people  say,  a  fortune.     I  carry  it  about  with  me." 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  What  1 — 
money  ?  "  said  she.     "  Ain't  you  afraid  o'  losin'  it? * 

"Not  money.     Of  that  have  I  very  little." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?     Oh,  ain't  you  a  tease ! " 

"Look  at  me,  and  see  if  you  can  find  out." 

She  looked  at  him  in  all  seriousness. 

"'Tisn't  your  face,"  said  she  thoughtfully,  in  some  way 
connecting  him  with  the  old  rhyme,  at  which  he  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  Why,  no,  that  is  certain,"  said  he. 

"  Tho*  I  don't  know  but  what — "  and  here  she  stopped,  her 
very  expressive  eyes  filling  in  the  sentence. 

"  Though  I  am  not  altogether  bad-looking  ?  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all  bad-looking,"  said  she  heartily.  "  I  thinks  you're 
very  nice." 

"  Write  me  down  middling.  I  am  not  so  good-looking  for 
a  man  as  you  are  for  a  girl :  but  certain  it  is  that  I  must  not 
rely  upon  my  beauty  to  keep  me.  No,  my  fortune  is  not  in 
my  face.  It  is  a  very  delicate  and  touchy  fortune,  I  can  tell 
you.     Why,  even  a  bad  cold  could  make  a  beggar  of  me ! " 

"  Now  you  are  pokin'  fun,"  said  she,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"and  you  won't  tell  me  nothink." 

**  Nothing,  Annie  ',  believe  me  there  is  no  *  k '  in  *  nothing.* 
If  you  cannot  take  my  word  for  that,  please  get  one  of  your 
little  brother's  spelling-books  and  look." 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  him,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  I  say,  don't  cry.  Here's  the  last  tree.  You  go  and  get 
the  milk.     I  shall  go  on  now.     Good-night." 

**  Oh,  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  cried  she  hastily,  "  I  am  not 
cryin'.  It's  something  in  my  eye.  You'll  come  back,  won't 
you  ?  " 

He  laughed,  and  waited  for  her. 

Midway  through  the  wood  they  thought  they  heard  someone 
coming,  so  plunged  among  the  bracken  and  tangle,  out  of 
sight. 

**  Sit  down,"  whispered  he,  "  behind  that  tree.  That's  right. 
If  anyone  sees  me,  you  are  invisible.     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  thorn  in  my  thumb." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  carefully  drew  the  thorn  out.  While 
he  was  doing  this,  Annie  was  trying  to  make  out  some 
hieroglyphic  signs  on  his  sleeve  links. 


Bias  I  17 

••  Oh ! "  said  she  suddenly,  in  great  delight. 

"  What's  up  now  ! "  said  he,  busy  with  the  thorn. 

"  I've  found  somethink  out." 

"  I  wish  you  would  leave  something  out,  Annie.  I  mean 
that  fearful  '  k  ' !     '  Thing,'  my  dear  child,  ends  with  a  'g.' " 

"  Oh,  bother  that !  Your  name  begins  with  a  '  L.' "  (He 
groaned.)     "  Now,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  do^^  said  he  resignedly.  "  This  is  infectious. 
When  I  return  to  civilisation  I  shall  have  to  invest  in  a  Lindley 
Murray.     All  my  recollections  of  him  are  getting  mixed." 

Annie  was  busy  with  the  links. 

*'  There's  two  L's  ! "  said  she  excitedly,  "  one  upside  down, 
an'  there's  one  *A,'  besides  two  little  letters  done  different. 
Your  name  can't  be  all  that." 

"  No.  You  are  no  nearer  my  name  than  you  were  before. 
These  links  are  Chinese  1 " 

She  looked  immensely  disappointed.  "Then  your  name 
don't  begin  with  'L'?" 

He  did  not  satisfy  her. 

^  Never  mind  my  name,"  said  he  briskly ;  "  it  could  do  you 
no  good  to  know  that.  Look  here :  after  to-morrow  I  must  be 
off.  I  will  come  tomorrow,  just  to  bring  you  a  keepsake 
and  say  *  good-bye.'  Good-night,  little  girl,  and  trot  off 
home." 

She  went  home,  met  him  again  the  next  night,  had  her 
keepsake;  but — the  "good-bye"  was  somehow  further  de- 
layed ;  and  evening  after  evening,  as  the  level  sun-rays  pierced 
the  dark  shafts  of  the  pines,  they  reddened  the  figures  of  the 
man  and  the  girl  moving  dreamily  side  by  side  as  through  an 
enchanted  land.  Verily,  to  the  girl  it  was  enchanted.  For 
the  most  part  silent,  she  began  to  understand  that  there  was 
something  in  her  which  might  have  spoken  had  culture  shaped 
it  to  utterance.  Familiarity  with  her  new  companion  did  not 
bring  with  it  the  usual  contempt.  She  could  only  deplore  her 
own  inferiority — only  wonder  at  the  condescension  of  this 
being  from  another  sphere  !  To  think  that  he  should  trouble 
to  shed  the  light  of  his  countenance  upon  her !  She  ceased 
to  remember  how  long  she  had  basked  in  that  light,  ceased  to 
ask  herself  what  she  should  do  when  the  light  was  withdrawn. 
Thought  of  herself  as  compared  with  him  she  had  none ;  care 
for  herself  as  separate  from  him  she  had  none.  To  be  with 
him,  to  be  something  to  him,  no  matter  what ;  to  watch  him 
dumbly,  as  a  dog  watches;  to  love  him  dumbly  as  a  dog  loves; 
to  feel  that  the  very  life,  that  solemn  God-given  life  of  her, 

B 


ts  Hnnte  Z>eane 

was  his  to  cherish  or  to  trample  on  as  he  chose.  Oh  1  it  was 
pitiful,  but  it  was  all  grim  reality  to  Annie  Deane. 

And  he  ?  He  knew  it,  he  could  not  help  knowing  it,  and — 
he  held  all  women  so  lightly  1 

Thus,  day  by  day,  they  two,  the  girl  of  sixteen  and  the  boy 
of  one-and-twenty,  drifted  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  of  a 
precipice,  which  to  a  woman  means — ruin.  Not  all  at  once. 
At  first  unconsciously,  then  fearfully,  then  foolhardily,  until 
with  a  leap  and  a  gasp  one  of  them  was — ovtrl 


CHAPTER    III 

"  GOOD-BYK  I " 

A  FEW  days  more,  and  Annie  Deane's  enchanted  land  was 
common  earth  again. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  said  the  magician  to  himself  one 
evening  as  he  went  by  the  old  way  to  the  old  meeting-place. 
•*  The  thought  of  it  is  growing  to  be  something  like  a  night- 
mare. I  never  dreamed  of  having  a  thing  like  this  to  answer 
for.  I  would  give  my  head  to  undo  it.  It  is  ba  — vile — 
ghastly  !     It  admits  of  no  excuse ;  it  is  indefensible." 

The  more  he  thought  of  the  girl,  the  more  irritable  he  grew. 
She  had  lain  a  damping  hand  upon  his  brilliant  prospects,  had 
started  him  handicapped  by  putting  him  on  bad  terms  with 
himself.  He  could  only  marvel  that  he  had  ever  given  her 
the  opportunity.  He  did  not  know  for  whom  he  had  the 
greater  contempt — for  her  or  for  himself. 

"  If  I  had  ever  been  a  cad  of  this  description  !"  he  thought 
as  he  went  along,  "  I  could  understand  it ;  but  I  have  not.  I 
may  not  have  been  more  than  a  negative  virtue,  but  I  have 
never  been  a  vice." 

Alone  as  he  was,  the  blood  mounted  to  his  very  hair.     His 

own  words  kept  ringing  in  his  ears :  "  It  admits  of  no  defence; 

it  admits  of  no  excuse."     He  went  a  little  farther,  and  told 

y        himself  that  the  man  who  could  do  a  thing  like  this  was  noi  a 

I       man,  he  was  a  coward  and  a  cad  ! 

The  words  as  applied  to  himself  stirred  all  the  manhood  in 
him.  He  writhed  at  them,  trying  to  beat  them  off.  Oh,  great 
Heaven  !  What  could  he  do  to  get  his  manhood  back ;  to 
once  more  stand  well  with  himself;  to  steadily  look  himself 
in  the  face  ?  Defence  or  apology  being  out  of  the  question, 
what  remained  ?     Reparation  ? 

He  paused,  leaning  against  a  tree.  His  agony  of  mind  was 
so  great  that  the  beads  of  perspiration  broke  out  upon  his 
forehead. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  muttered.  "  Shall  I  keep  my  self- 
respect  at  the  expense  of  my  future  ?    Shall  I  ?    What  does 

19 


to  Hnnie  2)eane 

that  mean  ?  Let  me  look  this  fairly  in  the  face.  There  are 
two  roads  open  to  me — only  two.  I  must  desert  her,  or  I  must 
marry  her.  Marry  her?  Put  her  arms  about  my  neck  for 
ever  ?  Take  her  everywhere  ;  leave  her — nowhere  ?  Be 
chained  to  her  night  and  day  ?  God !  what  a  weight  and  what 
a  fetter  !  And  what  a  fool  I  should  be  to  take  it  on  1  What 
is  there  in  the  girl  to  repay  me  for  such  an  enormous  sacrifice  ? 
Nothing.  1  couldn't  afford  to  educate  her;  no,  nor  to  keep 
her  mere  body  and  soul  together.  I  have  not  enough  to  keep 
myself,  to  say  nothing  of  a  wife  !  And  such  a  wife  !  I  couldn't 
stand  her  for  six  months  ;  and  in  a  very  little  longer  than  that 
she  would  discover  that  she  couldn't  stand  me.  I  should  have 
ruined  my  own  chance  of  happiness  and  hers  too.  No,  I 
cannot  marry  her.  It  would  be  simply  a  huge  sacrifice  for — 
nothing.  I  must  get  away  as  quietly  as  possible.  I  will  see 
the  girl  no  more  after  to-night.  I  swear  it !  If  there  had  been 
an  ounce  of  resolution  in  me,  I  should  have  left  a  month  ago. 
She  could  not  trace  me  if  she  tried,  for  she  does  not  even  know 
my  name.  Pshaw  !  as  if  she  would  try.  She  will  be  too 
anxious  to  keep  things  quiet.  She  says  that  blacksmith's  lad 
wants  to  marry  her.  Well,  let  him.  She  is  worth  nothing 
better.  Any  other  man  will  do  as  well  as  I;  and  if  not,  I 
cannot  help  it.     For  /  can't  marry  her — I'd  as  soon  be  shot." 

He  looked  up  suddenly  with  a  nervous  start.  Annie  stood 
within  a  couple  of  yards  of  him,  regarding  him  with  anxiety. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  said,  going  close  and  touching 
his  hand  with  her  cheek.     "You  looks  as  if  you  wusn't  well." 

"  I'm  very  well,"  he  said,  shrinking  a  little  from  the  wistful 
eyes.     "  I  have  walked  fast,  and  I  am  hot." 

«  Why  did  you  walk  fast  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  in  a  hurry.  I  will  walk  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood  with  you,  but  I  shall  not  be  able  to  stay  to-night" 

"Not  a  little  while?" 

"Well,  a  very  little  while.  You  see,  I  mu',t  get  away  by 
the  train  which  passes  here  about  half-past  !.  jven,  and  it  is 
nearly  seven  now." 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  ?  " 

"Some  distance  up  the  line;  and  I  say,  Annie,  I'm — I'm 
off  to-morrow,  for — for  good." 

The  hand  which  rested  on  his  arm  suddenly  clutched  it 
hard. 

"  Oh  !  you  don't  mean  it  ?  " 

"  I  do,  Annie,  I  do  really.  Now,  don't  be  a  simpleton.  I 
have  told  you  from  the  first  I  should  have  to  go.     Don't  try 


**  (BooNbpe ! "  ti 

to  make  yourself  believe  that  there  was  ever  any  doubt  about 
that." 

"Yes;  but  you  can't  go  and  leave  me,"  she  burst  out 
piteously,  "not  right  away,  where  I'd  never  see  you  agen? 
You  couldn't  do  that.     Whatever  would  I  do  ?  " 

"Why,  what  did  you  do  before?  My  dear  little  girl,  did 
you  think  we  were  going  to  meet  here  every  night  for  ever  ?  " 

She  released  his  arm,  and,  stumbling  forward  to  a  tree, 
leaned  against  it,  for  she  was  dizzy  and  faint. 

Her  divinity  had  threatened  to  leave  her  before;  but 
to-night  something  in  his  tone  and  manner  told  her  he  meant 
to  carry  the  long-deferred  threat  into  execution.  She  saw 
that  he  had  done  with  her.  She  gave  herself  a  minute  or  two 
to  recover  her  breath,  then  she  went  up  to  him.  Twisting  her 
hands  in  the  collar  of  his  coat  she  looked  up  into  his  face, 
while  all  the  youth  died  out  of  her  own,  and  her  lips  stiffened 
and  twitched,  but  uttered  no  word  nor  sound. 

He  tried  to  get  away. 

"  Come,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  said,  in  affected  surprise.  "  For 
Heaven's  sake  don't  make  a  fuss.  I  shall  come  back  again 
some  day,  I  daresay,  but  we  can't  go  on  meeting  in  this  wood 
for  ever.  In  fact,  I  ought  to  have  been  away  a  week  ago,  and 
the  sooner  I  go  the  better  for  bpth  of  us." 

She  tried  to  answer  him,  but  could  say  nothing ;  could  only 
cling  to  him  in  dumb  despair. 

He  glanced  at  her  once,  and  then  looked  steadily  away,  for 
he  thought  her  eyes  would  haunt  him  painfully  for  ever.  Of 
course,  he  could  not  hold  out ;  he  was  moved  by  compassion 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  hold  her  there  until  the  colour  had 
returned  to  her  face.  It  was  of  no  use,  he  thought  impatiently ; 
if  he  must  be  brutal,  he  could  not  be  verbally  brutal ;  he  must 
get  away — and  write. 

"  Now,  little  girl,  listen  to  me.  I  have  my  way  to  make  in 
the  world — what  you  call  my  living  to  get — and  I  cannot  stay 
any  longer  idling  about ;  go  I  must.  But  it  is  just  possible 
that  I  may  stay  over  to-morrow.  If  I  do  not,  I  will  find  a  way 
of  letting  you  know.  Oh,  never  mind  how  ;  I  will  manage  it. 
If  you  don't  see  me  to-morrow  night,  you  look  about  under 
this  tree  for  a  letter — this  tree  here,  with  the  big  dead  branch. 
You  won't  be  likely  to  mistake  it." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  left  the  letter  you'd  have  to  bring  it.  I 
could  come  an'  meet  you  any  time.  If  I  brought  the  baby 
mother  wouldn't  think  nothink,  not  even  if  'twas  in  the 
mornin*." 


33  Bnnie  Deane 

"It  would  not  be  in  the  morning.  It  may  not  even  be 
to-morrow  at  all.  But  I  promise  to  write  to  you  and  to  send 
you  something.  Remember  this  tree,  and  look  here  for  your 
letter.  Oh,  you  want  a  photograph,  don't  you?  Well,  you 
shall  have  one.  There,  be  a  good  girl  and  let  me  go.  If  I 
miss  this  train  it  will  put  me  to  a  lot  of  trouble.  My  dear 
girl,  don't  look  like  that.  There,  I  have  given  you  enough 
kisses  to  last  you  your  life.     Good-night." 

She  let  him  go  at  last.  She  did  not  speak,  because  she 
could  not.  The  uselessness  of  speech  came  home  to  her 
with  a  force  which  alone  was  sufficieut  to  paralyse  her  tongue. 
All  she  could  say  would  tell  this  man  nothing  but  what  he 
already  knew.  If  he — knowing — could  go  and  leave  her,  then 
all  the  speech  in  the  world  could  avail  her  nothing.  And  so — 
she  let  him  go  without  a  word  or  cry.  She  stepped  out  to  the 
turf  path  to  watch  him  as  he  went,  and  moved  her  head 
mechanically  when  he  turned  at  the  vanishing  point  to  smile 
and  raise  his  hat ;  but  she  did  not  smile  in  answer. 

And  in  truth  life  for  Annie  Deane  just  then  was  not  a 
smiling  matter. 

•  ••••••• 

The  next  night,  at  the  same  time,  she  went  hurriedly, 
fearfully,  through  a  driving  misty  rain  to  the  tree  with  the 
big,  dead  branch,  making  straight  for  it,  tearing  her  thin  skirt 
with  the  brambles,  and  caring  nothing  that  her  feet  were 
soaking  wet  through  contact  with  the  long,  coarse  grass. 

She  beat  down  the  thorny  sprays  whereon  the  berries  were 
turning  faintly  red,  then  searched  with  frantic  haste  in  the 
forest  of  moss  and  bracken  which  surrounded  the  tree.  Her 
heart  stood  still  with  mingled  hope  and  dread,  and  so  very 
unskilfully  did  she  search  that  she  trod  upon  her  letter  before 
she  saw  it.  She  bent  and  picked  it  up — that  big  stiff  letter — 
while  her  face  turned  grey,  and  something  within  her  seemed 
to  sink  down,  down  to  bottomless  depths. 

Then  she  broke  open  the  envelope  and  took  out  the 
contents — a  cabinet-sized  photograph,  a  short  letter  written 
very  plainly  in  a  large,  round  hand,  and  a  five-pound  Bank  of 
England  note.     Annie  looked  at  the  portrait  stupidly. 

"You  ain't  comin'  never  no  more,"  she  said  to  it  in  piteous 
reproach.  "I  knowed  that  last  night.  What  do  the  letter 
matter ?     A  letter  can't  do  nothing  for  me" 

She  turned  her  back  to  the  driving  rain  and  read ; 


"  My  dear  Annie, — You  see  I  could  not  come  tonight,  and 
it  is  of  no  use  keeping  you  up  with  false  hopes,  so  I  tell  you 
that  you  must  not  think  of  seeing  me  any  more.  In  a  day  or 
two  I  shall  be  far  away  from  here,  far  away  from  England  even 
— over  the  sea.  As  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  shall  be  as  a 
man  who  is  dead.  I  put  it  to  you  like  this  because  I  do  not 
know  in  what  other  way  to  show  you  what  I  mean,  and  I  must 
show  you  somehow.  I  have  been  thinking  of  your  sweetheart, 
the  blacksmith,  who,  by  your  own  account,  is  an  honest  fellow, 
and  very  fond  of  you.  You  told  me  that  he  wanted  to  marry 
you,  but  that  your  parents  thought  you  too  young.  They 
would  not  hold  out  if  they  could  see  that  you  were  willing  to 
marry  him.  Now,  Annie,  suppose  I  beg  you  to  let  him  have 
his  way,  and  to  do  it  at  once?  It  would  be  the  very  best 
thing  for  you,  perhaps  the  only  thing  which  could  save  you 
from  endless  trouble.  I  beg  of  you  to  understand  this,  and  to 
remember  that  it  is  really  the  one  safe  road  open  to  you.  The 
paper  I  have  pinned  to  this  is  a  bank-note.  Take  it  to  any 
large  shop  when  you  are  in  a  town  and  you  will  get  five  pounds 
for  it.  Take  care  of  it,  because  you  may  want  a  little  money 
some  day.  Don't  be  stupid  enough  to  let  anyone  know  you 
have  it,  just  hide  it  until  you  see  what  use  it  is  best  to  make  of 
it.  Above  all,  open  your  eyes  to  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  and 
understand  that  you  have  to  do  fwo  things.  The  first  is  to 
forget  me  as  soon  as  possible,  and  the  other  to  marry  young 
Drake.  When  you  have  done  that,  not  a  single  living  soul  will 
be  able  to  say  one  word  against  you.  Keep  this  letter  until  you 
thoroughly  understand  it,  but  as  soon  as  you  do — and  the 
sooner  the  better — destroy  it." 

She  did  not  look  as  if  she  understood  at  all ;  she  looked 
rather  as  if  all  understanding  were  crushed  out  of  her.  Once 
or  twice  she  took  her  head  between  her  hands  as  if  that  were 
necessary  to  keep  her  upright,  and  once  she  burst  out 
plaintively,  like  a  child  who  suddenly  realises  that  it  is  lost : — 

"  What  will  I  do  ?    Whatever  will  I  do  ?  " 

To  that  question  she  found  no  answer,  and  the  rain  blowing 
freshly  in  upon  her  reminded  her  that  her  milk-can  was  empty, 
and  that  she  would  be  wet  through  before  she  reached  the 
farm ;  so  she  unfastened  the  hooks  of  her  poor,  shapeless  gown, 
put  the  portrait,  letter,  and  money  in  her  bosom,  refastened 
her  bodice,  then  went  her  way  for  the  milk,  still  saying 
plaintively  to  herself: 

«  What  wUlI  do  ?    Oh  !  whatever  «/i7/ 1  do  ?  " 


•4  Bnnfe  2>eane 

Not  one  coherent  idea  shaped  itself  in  her  mind.  She 
did  not  resent  the  brutality  of  that  terrible  letter  she  carried — 
did  not  perhaps  quite  comprehend  k  yet.  The  only  sense 
present  with  her  was  the  sense  of  loss,  which  makes  the  present 
and  the  future  alike  a  blank,  and  yet  a  blank  which  is  keenly 
charged  with  pain.  So  all  the  wretched,  abandoned  child 
could  do  was  to  stumble  through  the  rain  on  her  familiar  errand, 
and  to  stumble  home  again,  hugging  that  shameful  letter  to 
her  heart,  and  asking  of  everything  merciful  in  earth  and 
heaven,  "  What  would  she  do  ?    Oh !  whatever  wou/d  she  do  ?  " 

There  was  one  person  who  had  appreciated  the  brutality  of 
that  letter,  who  had  even  exaggerated  it,  if  that  were  possible. 
That  person  was  the  man  who  wrote  it.  He  had  writhed  at 
every  word,  like  a  worm  that  is  severed  by  the  gardener's 
spade.  He  had  brutalised  it  purposely,  because  he  had  felt 
that  the  girl's  mental  hide  was  tough,  and  only  to  be  penetrated 
by  such  coarse  speech  as  that  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 
Therefore  he  must  be  coarse ;  must  make  himself  intelligible 
at  any  cost.  He  did  it  at  the  cost  of  his  self-respect,  and  when 
he  went  stealthily  through  the  haunted  ways  to  throw  that  letter 
among  the  bracken  and  the  brambles,  he  was  absolutely  afraid 
— afraid  of  the  whispering  voices  of  the  solemn  wood,  of  the 
cold  touch  of  the  misty  rain,  of  an  awful  wraith  whose  silent 
footfall  went  in  front  of  him,  stopping  sometimes  and  com- 
pelling him  to  stop  ;  for  he  went  in  company  with  the  ghost  of 
his  own  manhood,  and  the  thought  of  that  cruel  note  and  that 
pitiful  bit  of  money  flung  down  there  under  the  tree  was 
to  him  what  the  thought  of  the  slain  is  to  tne  slayer. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"l  MUST   HOLD   MY  TONGUE" 

The  autumn  winds  went  sighing  through  the  "woods  of  Royal 
Berkshire ;  the  children  had  gone  on  their  last  blackberrying, 
and  coming  home  with  half-filled  cans,  had  announced  that 
blackberries  were  over  for  that  year.  Another  layer  of  fallen 
pine-needles  crackled  softly  under  foot,  and  the  bracken  was 
yellow  and  sere. 

Annie  Deane  went  homeward  with  her  milk-can  as  usual ; 
but  she  chose  the  road  now,  and  as  she  walked  she  hung  her 
head,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  only  lifting  her 
eyes  in  a  shrinking,  startled  way  if  by  chance  some  stranger 
passed  her. 

One  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  November  she  had 
company  on  her  homeward  way.  A  sturdy,  dark-faced  lad 
carried  the  milk,  and  looked  down  from  time  to  time  at  the 
girl  by  his  side. 

"  You're  quiet,  Annie,"  said  he,  when  he  had  listened  to  his 
own  footsteps  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so.  "  Haven't  ye 
nothun  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  not,  else  I'd  'a  said  it,"  returned  she,  neither 
sharply  nor  sadly,  but  in  a  tone  between  the  two. 

"  You  have  said  it,"  said  young  Drake,  laughing. 

«  What  'ave  I  said  ?  " 

"  Why,  nothun." 

"  Oh  ! " — her  lips  curved  in  a  mirthless  smile — "  you've  bin 
drinkin'  vinegar." 

"  So  'ave  you,  by  yer  temper,  seem'ly.  If  we  can't  get  on 
better'n  this  it  wouldn't  be  no  good  of  us  settin'  up  on  our  own 
account,  would  it  ?    We've  fell  out  a  goodish  bit  lately." 

"  I  don't  know  as  we've  fell  out." 

"  Well,  p'r'aps  it  haven't  come  to  that ;  but  you've  bin  so  off- 
'anded,  you've  sort  o'  shunted  me.  I've  kep'  on  to  faather 
about  gettin'  married  till  he've  come  to  thinkin'  about  livin'  in 
that  'ouse  up  by  the  mill,  and  givin'  up  the  Forge  Cottage 
to  me." 

>5 


a6  Hnnie  Deane 

"  And  are  ye  goin'  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  What,  take  on  the  cottage  ?    That's  for  you  to  say." 

"  How  can  I  say,  Jim  ?  " 

"  You  can,  and  you  knows  how.  Six  months  ago  I  wanted 
to  keep  comp'ny  wi'  you,  but  your  father  he  said  you  wus  too 
young.  Mine,  he  thinks  difFrent,  and  so  do  mother.  Why, 
our  mother  wus  married  at  your  age,  and  'ave  never  bin  sorry 
for  it,  as  she  says  herself." 

Annie  kept  silence. 

"  So,"  Jim  went  on,  waxing  hopeful,  "  I've  got  leave  to  settle 
things,  and,  if  you  likes,  we  can  be  married  and  comf  table  this 
side  o'  Chris'mas." 

Annie  still  kept  silence. 

"  Mother  didn't  quite  like  ye  a  little  time  ago,  but  she've 
come  round.  She  says  as  you've  looked  older  and  settleder 
lately.  So,  as  they  sees  it's  no  good  tryin'  to  cross  me,  they've 
giv'  in  ;  and,  any  time  you  likes,  our  mother'U  come  an'  talk  to 
your  mother  about  settin'  up  'ouse.  She  knows  as  your  folks 
'ave  got  a  lot  o'  mouths  to  feed,  an'  nothun  to  giv'  away,  so 
she'll  do  all  as  is  wanted." 

Again  young  Drake  had  to  listen  to  his  own  footsteps  for 
some  minutes.     At  last  Annie  looked  up. 

"  Jim,"  said  she  shakily. 

"Well,  Annie?" 

"  Don't  let  your  folks  trouble  to  see  mine,  nor  to  move  to 
the  mill  on  account  o'  me,  for  I  can't  marry  ye,  Jim,  an',  what's 
more,  I  never  shall." 

"Well,  that's  straight!"  said  Jim,  spilling  the  milk  by 
reason  of  a  sudden  shock. 

"  It  can't  be  too  straight,  Jim.  I  means  what  I  says,  an'  I 
want  you  to  know  as  I  do  mean  it  I  can't  never  marry  you, 
Jim.     I  wish  I  could." 

"You've  got  another  chap?"  said  he,  halting  between  pride 
and  curiosity. 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

"  Then  why  can't  ye  marry  me  ?  " 

"  I've  never  made  ye  think  as  I  wus  goin*  to.  I've  often 
wondered  what  made  ye  run  after  me  so.  I've  cheeked  you, 
too,  sometimes,  and  mother,  she've  giv"  it  me  for  it.  I'm  sorry 
now,  Jim." 

"  But  why  is  it  ?  "  urged  Jim,  with  a  suspicion  of  pathos  in 
his  voice.  "  Give  a  chap  a  reason.  Things  is  easier  to  bear 
when  there's  a  reason.  As  to  runnin'  after  ye,  a  chap  don't 
mind  runnin'  after  a  girl  he  wants,  an'  I'm  sure  I'd  do  my  best 


"5  must  bol&  ms  tronouc"  «7 

by  ye,  an'  giv*  ye  as  good  a  home  as  niy  earnin's  'd  allow 
of." 

**  It's  all  no  good,  Jim.  There's  no  reason  as  I  can  tell  ye 
of  in  partickler ;  but  I  can't,  an'  I  worCt^  an'  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

Young  Drake's  face  was  as  pale  as  it  could  be,  taking  its 
sun-tan  into  consideration.  He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  he,  holding  Annie  back,  for  she  was 
walking  on.  "  We'll  be  in  the  village  directly.  Let's  have 
it  out  'fore  we  gets  there." 

"  We've  had  it  out,  Jim." 

"  No,  we  haven't.  Why,  if  you  can't  marry  me,  should  you 
wish  you  could  ?  " 

"  What  do  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  You  said  that  just  now." 

"Did  I?" 

"Yes,  an'  it  was  a  rum  thing  to  say.  What  wus  it  ye 
meant  ?  " 

She  looked  startled.  The  longest  tentacle  of  the  monster 
Dread,  far-reaching,  had  begun  to  encompass  her. 

"  I  s'pose  I  said  that  becos'  you  wants  me,  Jim." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  likely.  You  wouldn't  be  likely  to  wish 
that  jest  on  account  of  me." 

The  fear  in  the  girl's  eyes  intensified.  She  was  not  clever 
enough  to  see  that  Jim  was  merely  accusing  her  of  being  selfish. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his,  and  paled  to  her  lips. 

"  I  can't  see  any  reason  why  you  should  care  for  my  feelin's. 
Why  should  you  want  to  marry  me  and  yet  say  you  can't  ? " 
persisted  Jim.     "  Speak  up,  and  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

She  made  several  attempts  to  free  herself  of  Jim's  arm. 

"  There's  nothink  the  matter,"  she  began  j  but  then  she 
stopped,  for  her  faint  voice  failed  her. 

"  Well,  it's  a  rum  thing  to  me  if  there  isn't,"  said  Jim  blankly, 
"  that's  all !  Let  me  hold  ye — poor  little  thing  !  I  would  be 
good  to  you,  if  you'd  on'y  let  me  1 " 

The  rough  caress,  the  touch  and  presence  of  the  lad,  so 
diff^erent  to  something  she  remembered,  were  hateful  to  her. 
She  shrank  from  Jim,  and  he  saw  it. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver,  "  I'm  right 
enough — now." 

"  Nonsense  !  Look  here,  Annie,  you're  right  down  bad,  an' 
it  s  time  as  your  mother  had  the  hint  to  take  care  o'  you." 


28  Hnnie  Deane 

She  gasped  in  sudden  fright.  "  Oh,  Jim,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  you're  goin'  wrong  in  yer  health.  You're  as  thin 
as  a  rake,  an'  as  white!  I  can't  think  how  'tis  yer  mother 
haven't  noticed  it.     Our  mother  would." 

Annie  breathed  again,  and  walked  slowly  on. 

"  Mother  'aves  enough  to  do  to  look  after  the  childem,"  she 
said  presently ;  "  an'  so  'ave  I.  I  gets  very  tired  sometimes. 
That's  what's  the  matter  wi'  me,  Jim ;  on'y  that." 

"  Then,"  said  he  eagerly,  "  here's  yer  chance ;  get  away  out 
of  it" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  tears  came. 

"  I'd  like  to,  but  that's  what  I  meant  when  I  said  I  wus 
sorry.  I  wish  I  could  like  you  well  enough  to  want  to  come 
wi'  you  an'  live  at  the  Forge  Cottage.  But  when  I  thinks  o' 
that,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  rather  stay  at  home,  even  wi'  all  the 
childern  a-worryin'  my  life  out." 

Jim  withdrew  his  supporting  arm. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  gloomily ;  "  that's  a  clincher.  I've  bin 
a  fool  to  come  so  many  times  for  a  slap  in  the  face.  I  take 
good  care  I  don't  come  for  another." 

He  quickened  his  pace.     Annie  stopped. 

"  Give  me  the  milk,  Jim.     I  can't  keep  up,  so  you  go  on." 

She  took  the  milk,  and,  stumbling  to  one  side  of  the  road, 
sat  down  on  a  heap  of  stones. 

Jim  walked  on,  leaving  her  by  the  roadside.  She  watched 
him,  wondering  if  all  men  were  alike.  That  other  man  had 
left  her  in  outward  kindness,  but  still  he  had  left  her.  This 
man  walked  away  in  open,  selfish  brutality.  It  was  simply  a 
question  of  method ;  the  spirit  of  the  thing  was  the  same. 
She  rose  after  a  while  and  went  homeward,  quickening  her 
pace  as  she  came  within  earshot  of  her  father's  cottage,  for  she 
heard  a  familiar  sound — the  fretful  wail  of  a  baby. 

•'  Where  in  the  name  o'  patience  ha'  ye  bin  to  ?  "  Mrs.  Deane 
began,  as  soon  as  the  girl  lifted  the  latch.  "  Here's  this  baby 
ready  to  eat  his  fingers,  an'  he  jest  weaned ;  an'  the  others 
cryin'  to  go  to  bed,  an'  father  a-waitin'  for  'is  supper.  Who 
would  be  me,  I  should  like  to  know?  As  well  be  a  toad 
under  a  harrow.  Look  sharp,  off  wi'  yer  bonnet,  an'  take  this 
child.  There — there,  sonny  ;  Annie  '11  take  'im  an'  giv'  'im  'is 
supper." 

Annie  stood  patiently  swaying  the  child  to  and  fro — she  who 
was  just  a  child  herself,  in  all  but  a  child's  freedom  and  gaiety. 
Even  when  her  mother  handed  her  the  baby's  bread  and  milk 


**3  must  bol&  rws  Uon^ue"  99 

she  swayed  monotonously  still,  like  a  clockwork  figure  gradually 
"  running  down." 

She  fed  the  baby  with  more  haste  than  judgment — crammed 
him,  in  fact,  with  a  view  to  his  speedy  satisfaction  and  quietude. 
Experience  told  her  that  being  satisfied  he  would  sleep,  and  then 
she  could  take  him  up  to  her  bed,  and  set  to  work  on  similarly 
disposing  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  for  the  night.  This  done 
once  more,  she  went  downstairs,  meaning  to  pour  a  little  water 
on  the  leaves  in  the  teapot,  and  then  to  go  to  bed  herself. 
Her  mother,  however,  demurred. 

*'  Goin'  to  bed  ? "  she  said,  "an'  a  heap  o'  socks  and 
stockin's  to  mend,  besides  all  the  other  mendin'  an'  makin'? 
What  next,  for  a  great  gal  like  you,  as  ought  to  take  things  off 
my  'ands?  If  I'd  two  pairs  I  could  get  on,  but  I've  on'y  got 
one,  so  I  can't  let  yourn  be  idle  for  a  'our  or  two  yet.  Skulkin' 
off  to  bed,  lazyin' !     Tired,  indeed  !     What  d'ye  think  I  am  ?  " 

The  girl  stood  silent.  She  was  not  only  tired,  but  ill  and 
very  wretched.  Still,  she  made  no  complaint — simply  sat 
down  and  drew  the  big  work-basket  towards  her,  longing  the 
while  for  the  dark  room  upstairs,  for  her  one  poor  luxury  of 
tears.     Mrs.  Deane  drew  a  chair  and  sat  down  opposite  Annie. 

*'  Father's  choppin'  the  bavin  in  the  back-house,"  she  said. 
**  What  made  ye  so  late  with  the  milk  ?    Was  Jim  along  wi'  ye  ?  " 

"  I  met  him  up  the  road." 

"  Ah — h,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  smile,  "  that  was  it,  I  see. 
He's  offen  'long  wi'  ye  lately,  Annie." 

**  It  isn't  becos'  he's  wanted,  then,"  said  Annie.  "  I  don't 
want  Jim.  I've  told  him  so  more'n  once.  If  he  thinks  I 
cares  anything  for  'im,  then  he  can't  take  in  what's  said." 

"  Ye  see,  'tisn't  likely,"  said  the  mother ;  "  he's  a  steady  chap, 
an'  they're  so  much  better  off  than  we.  I  don't  s'pose  he 
thinks  as  you  mean  what  you  ses.  Drake's  people  is  gettin' 
quite  eager  for  it.  I  s'pose  they  sees  that  Jim's  so  set  'is  mind 
on  ye  that  it's  no  good  tryin'  to  cross  'im." 

"Jim  won't  set  'is  mind  on  me  no  longer,"  said  Annie, 
clutching  the  table  and  closing  her  eyes,  "  I  told  'im  to-day 
once  an'  for  all  'twas  no  good." 

"  Then  you're  a  little  fool ! "  burst  out  Mrs.  Deane  wrath- 
fuUy.  "  Here's  we  as  pore  as  pore,  scarce  knowin'  where 
to  turn  for  a  bit  o'  bread,  an'  when  there's  a  good  'orae  open 
to  ye  you  tosses  yer  head  an'  turns  up  yer  nose.  You'll 
live  to  repent  such  foolishness,  my  gal;  an'  if  we  wus  some 
parents,  you'd  be  made  to  marry  Jim  whether  ye  would  or  no." 

Annie  went  on  darning,  but  feeling  that  her  mother  was 


30  Hnnie  5)eane 

watching  her,  she  thought  it  best  to  say  she  was  not  well 
Before  she  could  speak  the  room  upheaved,  and  she  put  out 
both  hands  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 

"  Lor*  'a  mercy,  oh  I "  said  Mrs.  Deane ;  "  what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  I'm  tired,"  murmured  Annie  piteously ;  "  on'y  that.  You 
thinks  I'm  lazy,  but  they  wus  all  awake  jest  after  four  this 
mornin',  an'  I've  bin  on  my  feet  since  five." 

"Why,  get  along,  then,"  said  the  mother,  not  unkindly. 
*  Are  ye  faint  ?  Here,  child,  here's  the  stairs ;  can't  ye 
see  'era  ?  " 

Annie  felt  her  way  up,  reached  her  room  safely,  and  lay 
down  among  the  sleeping  children,  very  cold,  and  sick,  and 
comfortless. 

Mrs.  Deane  resumed  her  seat  and  took  up  the  darning. 

"  Where's  Annie  ?  "  said  the  father,  when  he  came  in. 

"Gone  to  bed.  There's  somethin'  wrong  wi'  'er  lately. 
Gals  o'  that  age  is  'ard  to  manage.  They  don't  know  half  their 
time  what  ails  'em.  But,  Dan'l,  as  sure  as  I'm  alive,  when  she 
says  she  won't  'ave  Jim  Drake  she  means  it" 

"Time  enough  for  all  that,"  said  the  man.  "She's  only 
sixteen.     Leave  'em  alone,  missis — leave  'em  alone." 

Annie  lay  and  listened  for  her  father  and  mother  to  come  to 
bed.  When  all  was  quiet  she  lit  a  bit  of  candle,  put  her  hand 
between  the  flock  bed  and  the  mattress,  drew  out  the 
photograph  we  know  of,  and  held  it  against  her  cheek. 

"  It  was  all  terrible  wrong,"  she  said,  "  an'  I'm  goin'  to  suffer 
for  it  bad.  But  to  marry  Jim  couldn't  put  things  right,  an'  I 
won't  do  it.  It  would  be  wicked  to  deceive  Jim,  an'  I  won't 
do  it.  Besides,  I  couldn't  never  like  Jim  now.  When  he  put 
'is  arm  round  me  to-day  I  could  ha'  struck  'im.  No;  I  must 
bear  what  I've  got  to  bear,  an'  hold  my  tongue." 


CHAPTER  V 

jim's  mother 

Christmas  was  over,  and  the  Drake  family  had  not  found  it 
necessary  to  remove  to  the  mill.  Jim  had  not  pressed  the 
matter  of  marriage  upon  Annie  further,  and  the  village  gossips 
were  at  a  standstill.  That  an  eligible  young  fellow  should  want 
a  girl,  and  not  be  able  to  get  her,  was  a  thing  so  remarkable  as 
to  suggest  mystery  and  demand  solution.  But  as  January 
drew  to  a  close,  and  the  clear,  cold  days  began  to  lengthen,  the 
gossips  waxed  garrulous,  and  darkly  hinted  that  the  key  to  the 
long-standing  puzzle  had  been  found.  When  Annie  passed  up 
the  straggling  street,  looking  furtively  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  she  was  conscious  of  producing  much  ill-concealed 
interest.  The  village  newsmongers  turned  from  their  doors  to 
pull  aside  window-curtains  and  crane  their  necks,  the  better  to 
judge  of  the  truth  of  their  suspicions  ;  and  when  the  shrinking 
girl  had  passed  they  rushed  to  the  doors  again  to  nod  and 
make  signs  to  each  other  across  the  road.  The  matter  was  even 
discussed  in  the  little  general  shop,  and  began  to  lose  the 
charm  of  novelty. 

Mrs.  Deane,  absorbed  in  her  household  trials,  was  one  of  the 
last  to  awaken  to  the  situation.  She  kept  pretty  much  within 
doors,  so  the  rumour  which  was  freely  circulated  among  the 
chatterers  outside  did  not  reach  her.  It  did  not  reach  her, 
indeed,  until  the  short  second  month  of  the  year  was  about 
half  over,  and  what  little  anxiety  she  had  felt  concerning 
the  girl — now  much  better — was  over  too. 

The  elder  children  were  at  school,  Annie  was  out  with  the 
young  ones,  Deane  was  at  work,  and  his  wife,  having  "  cleaned  " 
herself,  set  the  kettle  on  for  tea,  and  sat  down  to  indulge  in  ten 
minutes'  doze  by  the  fire.  The  February  sun  was  bright,  but 
Mrs.  Deane's  blazing  bavin  twigs  were  brighter,  and  the  kettle 
soon  began  to  sing.  The  tired  woman  had  nodded  once  or 
twice,  when  her  head  went  back  with  a  violent  jerk  because  of 
R  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Dear,  bother  I  who's  that  ?  "  said  she  testily  as  she  went, 

ai 


s*  Bnnfe  Deane 

yawning,  to  lift  the  latch.  "Lor"!  Mrs.  Drake;  come 
in,  do." 

Mrs.  Drake  went  in,  and  sitting  down,  took  her  big  cameo 
brooch  out  of  her  shawl,  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  thereby  show- 
ing that  she  intended  to  stay.  Mrs.  Deane  was  surprised,  but 
flattered. 

"  You're  all  alone  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Drake. 

•*  Yes.     Deane's  at  work,  an'  Annie  out  wi'  the  childem." 

'*  Ah,  it'll  do  'em  good.  I  dessay  they're  well  wropped  up. 
It's  fortunate  you  are  alone,  for  I've  got  somethin'  to  say.  I 
feels  like  this  :  there's  that  bein'  said  in  the  village  as  didn't 
ought  to  be  said  if  it  isn't  true  ;  an'  anybody  hearin'  of  it  an' 
not  tellin'  the  parties  int'rested  isn't  doin'  a  neighbour's  part,  as 
I'm  sure  I  likes  to  do  myself,  an'  expects  other  people  to  do 
by  me." 

Mrs,  Deane  sat  down  and  opened  her  mouth,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  a  little  better'n  a  month  ago ;  an*, 
though  I  won't  deny  but  what  it  give  me  a  turn,  knowin'  you  so 
well,  an'  thinkin'  o'  my  boy  Jim,  who's  a  good,  straightforrard 
lad  as  ever  wus,  an'  never  have  give  us  a  day's  trouble  since  he 
got  over  the  fever  nine  years  ago,  I  passed  it  by,  an'  it  went  out 
o'  my  mind.  But  on'y  last  week  Drake  hisself  says  to  me, 
*  Missis,  you  rek'lect  what  so-an'-so  said  to  you  about — ',  and 
afore  he  could  finish  I  see  what  he  meant.  *  Why,  that  I  do,' 
says  I.  'Have  you  heard  anythink  ?'  'Yes,  I  have,'  says  he; 
*an',  depend  on't,  it's  near  about  right/  though,  as  I  says  agen, 
stricter  people  than  you  Deanes,  an'  respectabler — " 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  here  interposed  Mrs.  Deane  helplessly. 
"  You  haven't  told  me  what  it  is  yet." 

"  I'm  comin'  to  it.  Of  course,  our  Jim's  a  good  lad,  though 
I  say  it  as  hadn't  ought ;  but,  no  matter  how  good  a  lad  is,  gals 
must  take  care  o'  theirselves,  or  things'U  happen  as  it's  best 
shouldn't  happen.  Old  married  folks  like  us,  Mrs.  Deane, 
knows  all  about  that." 

"  Will  you  b'lieve  me,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  dropping  her  hands 
on  her  knees,  "  but  I  can't  see  what  you're  drivin'  at  I  can't 
if  I  was  killed  for  it." 

Mrs.  Drake  lifted  her  brows  very  high.  "  Is  it  ever 
possible  ?  "  she  said  drily. 

"  It  is,  tliough  by  your  look  you  don't  believe  me." 

"  Well,  if  that's  true,  I'm  a'most  sorry  I  come  ;  but  I  must 
say,  Mrs.  Deane,  that  if  Annie  had  been  my  gal,  I  should  ha' 
seen  how  things  wus  a  long  time  ago." 


51m*0  /IDotber  33 

*•  Annie  ?  "  the  mother  said  stupidly ;  "  our  Annie  ?  Why, — 
what  d'ye  mean  about  her?  I  knows  she've  not  bin  well — 
very  peaked  and  poorly ;  but  if  you've  come  to  show  me  my 
dooty  to  my  children,  Mrs.  Drake,  let  me  tell  you  as  I  do  that 
as  well  as  circumstances  'ill  let  me.  They  might  look  better  if 
they  lived  better,  but  wages  is  little  and  victuals  is  dear.  They 
haves  the  best  I  can  give  'em,  Mrs.  Drake." 

"  I'm  not  talkin'  about  that,  my  good  soul.  When  you  says 
as  that  gal  isn't  well,  do  ever  you  mean  that  you  can't  see  what's 
the  matter  wi'  her  ?  " 

And  then  something  came  into  the  mother's  innocent  mind 
which  for  the  moment  stunned  her,  as  one  is  physically  stunned 
by  a  blow  on  the  head.  She  was  recalled  to  immediate  matters 
by  the  kettle,  which  boiled  over,  causing  Mrs.  Drake  to  cough 
violently  by  reason  of  the  sulphurous  smother  it  made.  By  the 
time  she  had  recovered  her  breath,  Mrs.  Deane  had  risen  to 
the  situation,  and  was  ready  to  defend  it. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  people  for  scandalisin'  my  gal  behind 
'er  back,"  she  said ;  "  it's  neighbours  all  over,  that  is.  But  they 
better  mind  what  they  says,  for  Deane's  a  quiet  man  as  ever 
lived ;  but  'e  wouldn't  stand  by  quiet  to  hear  'is  gal  spoke  bad 
of,  an'  anyone  as  did  it  'd  find  theirselves  mistook.  There's 
nothun  wrong  wi'  our  Annie,  ye  may  take  my  word  for  that. 
Growin'  gals  is  offen  weak  an'  out  o'  sorts,  as  I  own  she  'ave 
bin  an'  is  now;  but  a  better  gal  isn't  to  be  found  for  miles 
round — no,  nor  a  prettier,  Mrs.  Drake.  P'r'aps  ihafs  why  folks 
can't  let  her  alone." 

Mrs.  Drake  smiled,  and  said  she  never  had  set  herself  up  to 
be  a  judge  of  beauty ,  and  that  as  long  as  her  Patty  behaved 
herself  like  a  modest  girl  should,  she  was  quite  content  to 
leave  the  good  looks  to  other  people.  Everybody  knew  that 
"  handsome  is  as  handsome  does,"  and  she,  for  one,  wouldn't 
say  "  Thank  you  "  to  be  the  mother  of  a  pretty  girl ;  she  had 
always  thought  this  to  be  a  position  fraught  with  so  much 
responsibility.  Having  dehvered  herself  of  these  opinions,  she 
rose  and  put  on  her  shawl. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  haven't  took  my  meanin'  kinder,"  she  said, 
with  the  pin  of  her  brooch  between  her  teeth  ;  "  but  in  case  you 
should  find  what  I  tells  ye  to  be  right— an',  mark  my  words,  it 
is  right — I'll  say  what  I  meant  to  say,  'cos  we,  Drake  an'  me, 
'ave  felt  a  bit  put  about  ourselves.  Now,  jest  you  speak  to 
your  gal  on  the  quiet.  If  all's  right,  why,  so  much  the  better, 
an*  there's  no  'arm  done ;  but  if  there  is  anythink  amiss,  an' 
anybody  belongin'  to  us  is  to  blame,  why,  then,  Drake  an'  me 

c 


S4  Bnnic  Deane 

will  do  what  we  can  to  try  and  put  things  right.  I,  for  one, 
don't  like  to  lay  all  a  burden  like  this  on  the  one  pair  o' 
shoulders.  I  thinks  the  man's  shoulders  is  the  strongest,  an' 
should  anyway  take  half.  It  mayn't  be  pleasant  for  us,  but  I'd 
like  to  know  as  we  did  the  right  thing.  An',  Mrs.  Deane,  now, 
or  at  a  future  time,  as  may  be,  you  may  depend  on  us  to  do  it. 
I'm  sorry  if  I've  offended  you.  I  can  on'y  say,  as  I  said  jest 
now,  I  wish  to  do  a  neighbour's  part,  as  I'd  like  any  o'  my 
neighbours  to  do  by  me." 

When  Mrs.  Drake  had  left,  Mrs.  Deane  slowly  began  to 
prepare  the  children's  tea.  They  all  came  in  shortly,  and  she 
helped  Annie  attend  to  them  as  usual.  But  when  they  were 
all  in  bed  she  sat  down  opposite  her  husband,  looking  at  him 
drearily,  and  wondering  whether  or  not  to  tell  him  of  Mrs. 
Drake's  visit.     She  decided  to  tell  him,  and  did  so. 

After  a  long,  long  talk  they  made  up  their  minds  to  say 
nothing  for  a  week,  during  which  time  the  mother  was  to  keep 
a  close  watch  over  the  girl. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Deane  said  : 

"Well,  missis,  tell  us  what  ye  thinks,  for  my  very  bread  don't 
taste  right  these  seven  days,  an'  there's  somethin'  in  the  look  o' 
the  gal  as  chokes  me  off  speakin'  to  'er.  Tell  us,  what  do  ye 
think?" 

And  the  mother  answered  quietly : 

"Dan'l,  I  don't  think  at  all.  I  knows;  an'  I  knows  as  it's 
true." 


CHAPTER  VI 

•*  I  don't  know** 

The  next  day  the  sword  which  had  hung  over  Annie  Deane's 
head  for  so  many  weary  weeks  descended. 

The  elder  children  were  at  school.  Mrs.  Deane  shut  the 
younger  ones  out  of  mischief,  and  then,  with  more  steadiness 
than  might  have  been  expected  of  her,  asked  Annie  for  the 
truth,  half  hoping,  after  all,  to  hear  a  bewildered  denial  of  the 
whole  thing.  No  denial  came.  Very  quiet,  very  white  and 
wretched,  Annie  heard  what  her  mother  had  to  say,  standing 
the  while  with  tight-clenched  hands  twisted  in  the  skirt  of  her 
gown,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  bit  of  pale  sky  she  could  see 
through  the  slip  of  a  casement. 

When  her  mother  begged  for  the  truth,  she  stood  unmoved ; 
when  the  poor  woman  broke  down  and  sobbed,  she  stood 
unmoved;  when  the  sobs  gave  way  to  bitter  and  vehement 
reproach,  she  stood  unmoved ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  all- 
important  question  of  identity,  she  opened  her  pale  lips  and 
answered  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  long  since  prepared  such 
answer : 

"  I— don't— know." 

"What?"  said  the  mother,  in  angry  impatience.  "Don't 
make  me  any  such  foolish  answer  as  that  agen,  or  you'll  be 
sorry  for  it !  How  dare  ye  stan'  in  front  o'  yer  own  good 
mother  an'  tell  her  such  a  wicked  thing.  Tell  me  straight  out 
— who  is  it  ?  " 

*'  It  is  true  what  I  said.     1  don't  know." 

Checking  herself  with  difficulty,  the  mother  passed  the 
exasperating  answer  by. 

"  Mrs.  Drake  come  to  me  and  spoke  very  fair.  She  offered 
to  try  and  shut  people's  mouths.  It's  a  sad  disgrace,  an'  if 
Drake's  people  'ad  turned  their  backs  on  ye,  it  wouldn't  ha'  bin 
to  wonder  at.  But  they're  very  right-thinkin'  folks,  an'  both 
she  an'  Drake'll  try  to  make  Jim  stan'  by  ye,  an'  hush  it  up  as 
well  as  they  can." 

She  showed  some  feeling  now.     Her  eyes  came  down  from 

35 


$6  Hnnie  Deanc 

the  patch  of  sky  and  met  her  mother's  for  an  instant ;  her  lip 
curled  in  supreme  contempt. 

"/im  Drake  I "  said  she  scornfully,  and  the  mother  saw  at 
once  that  it  was  not  he  :  which  made  things  worse.  In  the 
thought  of  Jim  had  lain  a  certain  amount  of  comfort,  a  hope  of 
escape  from  the  deepest  depths  of  village  scorn.  Jim  and 
Annie  together  would  have  to  live  the  scandal  down.  Now  Jim 
walked  out  of  it  with  clean  hands,  leaving  the  girl  to  face  it 
alone.  There  was  no  one  else  to  whom  Mrs.  Deane  could  turn, 
and  she  plied  the  girl  with  questions  unavailingly.  At  last, 
fearing  to  trust  herself,  she  turned  away  in  despair. 

"  Get  out  o'  my  sight,"  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
keep  my  'ands  off  ye !    I  must  leave  yer  father  to  deal  wi*  you." 

Deane  tried  to  get  out  of  it  with  all  his  might. 

*'What  can  I  do?"  implored  he  helplessly.  •'Gals  is  the 
mother's  business,  specially  at  a  time  like  this." 

"  Or  any  other  time  that's  a  time  o'  trouble,"  said  she  bitterly. 
"  Trust  a  man  for  givin'  the  woman  the  dirty  work  to  do." 

"  But  I  dunno  how  to  get  at  her,  missis.  How  do  /know 
what  to  say  ?  It's  the  worst  stroke  o'  luck  we've  ever  had,  an' 
I  dunno  how  to  deal  wi'  it.  What  does  other  folks  do  ?  It 
seems  to  me  as  I've  heard  they  sends  the  gal  right  away." 

"  Tell  me  where  ?  What  friends  ha'  we  got  to  take  her  ?  It's 
very  well  to  talk  of  sendin'  her  away,  wi'  no  money  an'  no 
friends.  No ;  what  we've  got  to  do  is  to  find  out  who's  to 
blame.     You  must  frighten  'er  into  tellin'  us  that." 

So  the  father,  with  even  a  blush  of  awkwardness  on  his 
weather-beaten  face,  went  in  to  the  girl  and  begged  her  to  tell 
him  what  it  was  imperative  they  should  know.  She  hid  her 
face  from  him,  but  kept  silence. 

"  Don't  mistake  us,"  he  said  patiently.  "We're  terrible  cut 
up,  but  we  won't  turn  our  back  on  ye  if  on'y  you'll  tell  us  the 
truth.  We'd  sooner  ha'  followed  you  to  the  grave ;  but  there's 
no  use  talkin'  o'  that  now.  As  soon  as  we  can  get  turned 
round,  we  must  see  what  can  be  done ;  but  afore  we  can  do 
anythink  at  all,  o'  course  we  must  ha'  the  whole  truth  right 
out." 

She  rocked  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  but  said  nothing. 

"You'll  gain  nothink  by  obs'nacy,"  he  resumed,  "You'll 
on'y  harden  us  agen  ye.  O'  course,  if  it  comes  to  that,  we  can 
find  out  easy  enough.  The  world  ain't  so  big  but  what  a  man's 
to  be  found  if  he's  in  it.  Still,  we're  lookin'  to  you  to  tell  us 
who  he  is." 

She  held  her  peace.     Her  father  went  closer  to  her. 


"5  2)on*t  Itnow"  37 

"  No  defiance,"  said  he,  *'  'cos*  that  I  won't  'ave.  Ye've  done 
enough  wrong  without  aggeravatin'  it  by  defyin'  yer  father  an' 
mother.     Now,  d'ye  hear.     What  I  wants  is  a  man's  name." 

She  moaned  to  herself,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  All  as  I  'as  to  say  is — give  me  that  man's  name." 

She  moaned  again,  with  her  face  hidden. 

He  drew  her  concealing  hands  away,  and  held  them  in  one 
of  his. 

"  Now,  tell  me  that  name." 

She  moistened  her  lips,  and  tried  to  free  her  hands.    "I — I — " 

"  What  ?     Come  on,  now." 

"  I_I_can't." 

"  Don't  say  that  agen.     You  can,  and  you  shall." 

Her  face  was  grey,  her  teeth  were  chattering  with  fear,  her 
hands  were  swelling  with  the  vice-like  grasp  on  her  wrists.  Her 
father  had  never  beaten  her,  but  she  had  seen  him  beat  the 
boys,  and  physically  she  was  a  coward. 

"  I'm  waitin'  for  that  name." 

Her  lips  formed  the  answer  inaudibly. 

"  What  did  ye  say  ?  " 

« I— don't  know." 

•'  None  o'  that,  or  you'll  get  my  blood  up,  an'  I  shall  do 
what  I  shall  be  sorry  for.  Now,  dare  say  that  agen.  Tell  me 
that  man's  name." 

"  Father,  I  don'i  know." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  I — I — "  she  stopped,  afraid.  Deane  was  losing  his  self- 
control,  and  his  face  showed  signs  of  ihe  storm  within  him.  He 
rocked  the  girl  to  and  fro  by  lier  hands,  then  suddenly  brought 
her  forward  with  a  jerk,  which  closed  her  chattering  teeth  upon 
her  lip,  staining  it  with  blood. 

"  Dare  tell  me  that  lie  agen  !     Tell  me  the  truth." 

She  tried  to  free  one  hand,  but  not  being  permitted,  patiently 
stooped  her  mouth  to  the  sleeve  of  her  old  dress,  and  left  a  red 
mark  there.  Deane  saw  it,  and  freed  her  hands.  She  wiped 
her  lip,  then  rubbed  her  wrists  hard  and  slowly.  They  were 
very  painful. 

"  I'm  waitin'  for  the  truth." 

She  edged  back  to  the  wall  as  if  for  protection.  Her  father 
followed  her. 

"  Are  ye  deaf?  or  are  ye  a  fool  ?  " 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  patient  and  dumb,  the  blood 
from  her  bitten  lip  slowly  outlining  it  with  red. 

*'  Will  ye  answer  me  ?  " 


sB  Hnnfe  S>eane 

"I— have." 

"You  haven't.     I  ast  ye  for  a  man's  name." 

She  put  her  trembling  arm  in  front  of  her  face. 

•'  I  told  ye  what  I  could,  father.  I  did,  for  truth,"  she  said, 
with  a  flinch  at  every  word. 

•*  You  told  me  a  lie." 

"  It  wusn't,  father ;  it  wus  the  truth." 

**  I  say  it  was  a  lie,  an'  not  on'y  that,  but  a  foolish  He — a 
hardened,  wicked,  cursed  lie  !  "  cried  Deane,  raising  his  voice 
until  the  small  stock  of  household  glasses  on  a  shelf  near  rang. 
".  Wus  it  that  lad  o'  Drake's  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Wus  it  any  o*  the  village  folks  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  it  wus  some  o*  the  gentry  round  about,  an*  they  shall 
pay  for  it  dear  ! " 

"  It — it — wusn't  none  o*  them.'* 

"  Then  who  wus  it  ?  " 

She  pressed  back  hardly  against  the  wall. 

"  Say  ye  won't  tell  me." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Mind,  I'll  make  ye,  for  my  blood's  up." 

She  brought  her  eyes  to  the  level  of  his  clenched  fist,  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  measure  the  strength  of  it,  or  to  familiarise 
herself  with  the  idea  of  being  struck  by  it.  The  knotty  veins 
and  the  white  knuckles  seemed  to  fascinate  her. 

"  Yes,"  Deane  said  slowly,  "  you  may  look  at  it,  an'  'less  ye 
up  an'  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know,  ye'll  feel  it — let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  will." 

There  was  silence,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  Annie  lost  all 
fear  of  the  clenched  hand,  for  physical  weakness  had  mastered 
her,  and  she  was  growing  faint.  The  little  room  seemed  to  be 
fading  away,  and  something  curious,  like  a  tangible  darkness, 
was  weighing  her  eyelids  down  and  pinning  her  back  against 
the  wall.  She  was  not  even  frightened  when  she  discovered 
that  her  father  was  holding  her  by  the  shoulders ;  she  only  felt 
a  throb  of  gratitude.  She  was  going  to  faint,  and  if  he  hurt 
her,  she  would  not  feel  it.  Besides,  he  would  be  startled  then, 
and  would  let  her  alone  for  fear  of  injuring  her.  He  might  be 
terribly  upset,  but  he  was  "  father"  still,  and  surely  would  not  be 
very  cruel.  But  he  had  no  idea  of  letting  her  alone.  He  saw 
that  she  was  pallid,  that  her  eyes  were  heavy  and  devoid  of 
expression  ;  but  a  fainting  girl  was  a  thing  which  had  not  come 
into  his  narrow  experience.     So  he  simply  held  Annie  by  the 


**5  H)on't  iftnow**  39 

shoulders,  and  demanded  satisfaction,  sometimes  roughly, 
sometimes  with  an  effort  after  self-control,  but  always  in  a 
manner  calculated  to  make  her  understand  that  he  meant  to 
have  the  truth. 

They  stood  thus  for  ten  or  twelve  long  minutes.  Although 
Annie  felt  desperately  ill,  she  did  not  quite  lose  her  senses, 
and  as  the  minutes  passed  she  realised  that  sight  and  power  of 
thought  were  growing  clear  again.  She  tried  to  speak,  found 
she  could  not,  waited,  and  tried  again,  succeeding  very 
imperfectly ;  tried  once  more,  and  managed  to  ask  if  she 
might  sit  down. 

"  When  you've  answered  me,"  said  Deane. 

*«  But  I'm  bad,  father ;  I'm  so  bad  ! " 

"  Then  speak  up,  and  tell  me  what  I  ast.  As  soon  as  you've 
done  that  ye  can  go." 

She  dropped  her  head  back  against  the  wall,  with  a  feeble, 
whining  protest  against  his  cruelty. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  with  a  jerk  of  her  shoulders,  "sharp. 
I'm  at  the  end  o'  my  patience." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  she  said,  struggling  with  a  choking  at 
her  throat.     "  I've  nothin'  to  say." 

"  Ye  won't  say  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say." 

"  Who's  to  stop  ye  ?  " 

She  gasped  again,  and  held  her  throat  with  her  hands. 

«  Why  can't  ye  ?  " 

« I— don't— know." 

And  then,  fearing  the  effect  of  that  exasperating  answer,  she 
lost  control  of  herself,  and  burst  into  shrieking  sobs,  which 
brought  her  mother  from  the  next  room,  and  fairly  frightened 
ever)'one. 

"  Here,  here,  go  'long  out  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Deane  to  her 
husband.  "  I  might  ha'  known  as  you'd  do  no  good.  Why, 
Annie — Annie,  don't  cry  like  that !  There,  there's  a  good  gal 
now,  hush  up.  Did  father  hit  ye  ?  No  ?  then  whatever  is  the 
matter  ?  Why  didn't  ye  tell  me^  an'  then  I  wouldn't  ha'  put 
'im  on  to  ye  ?  Men  can't  never  tell  when  to  stop.  Here, 
mercy,  this'U  never  do!" 

Saying  which  she  took  the  shaking,  sobbing  girl  in  her  arms, 
and  alternately  coaxed  and  scolded  her  into  silence.  Then  she 
went  into  the  kitchen,  where  Deane  sat  in  crestfallen  shame, 
and  soundly  rated  him  for  his  clumsiness  and  failure. 

*'  Don't  tell  me  ye  didn't  hit  'er.  Ye  made  'er  poor  mouth 
bleed.    It's  bleedin'  now,  an'  she's  like  a  dead  thing  1    As  if 


4»  finnie  Z)eane 

there  wusn't  enough  'arm  done  without  that  1  Here's  the 
children  'ome  from  school.  What,  Alice  ?  what's  the  matter 
with  Annie  ?  Nothink.  Off  wi'  yer  things  and  'elp  wi'  the 
dinner,  an'  don't  ast  so  many  questions." 

The  neglected  dinner  being  ready  and  everyone  served,  the 
mother  left  her  own  and  went  back  to  the  front  room. 

"  Come  along,"  she  said,  "  come  an'  have  yer  dinner.  If 
you  cries  yerself  blind  ye  can't  straighten  things — now." 

But  Annie,  though  she  followed  her  mother  into  the  kitchen, 
shook  her  head  at  sight  of  the  bit  of  "  rusty  "  bacon  and  the 
savoy  cabbage  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"Give  me  the  baby,"  said  she,  as  well  as  she  could  for 
sobbing.  "  I  don't  want  no  dinner,  but  do  let  me  have  the 
baby." 

She  took  the  child,  and  commenced  to  cram  him,  as  usual, 
with  his  dinner  of  mashed  potatoes  and  milk  ;  while  he  varied 
the  performance  by  kicking  up  his  heels  and  uttering  an 
occasional  crow  of  delight  as  one  big  tear  after  another  fell 
upon  his  chubby  hands. 

Late  that  night,  when  all  was  quiet  save  for  Deane's  regular 
snoring,  the  mother  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  stole  into  the  next 
room. 

'*  Asleep,  Annie  ?  "  whispered  she. 

"  No,  mother." 

"Well  now,  there's  a  good  girl,  tell  yer  mother  what  we 
wants  to  know.  'Tisn't  as  if  father  an'  me  wanted  to  be  'ard 
on  ye ;  we  don't.  We'll  try  and  scrape  together  a  bit  o'  money 
to  send  ye'  away  for  a  bit,  an'  then  we'll  take  ye'  back  agen  the 
same  as  ever ;  but  we  can't  till  we  knows  the  truth.  There's 
nobody  to  hear  now.  Tell  mother  who  the  man  is  as  made  ye 
forget  yerself  an'  do  this  dreadful  wrong." 

And  out  of  the  dark  there  came  the  old  hopeless  answer, 
spoken  steadily — 


CHAPTER  VII 

"m  THE   DEAD,   UNHAPPY   NIGHT** 

A  FEW  days  later  Annie  and  her  mother  stood  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  village  station,  waiting  for  the  Reading  train,  a 
temporary  refuge  having  been  found  for  the  girl  by  Mrs. 
Drake,  who  had  proved  herself  a  very  friend  in  need  to  the 
Deanes  in  their  trouble. 

"  Now,  jest  you  listen  to  me,"  she  had  said  to  Mrs.  Deane  ; 
"  I've  bin  into  Readin',  an'  I've  seen  my  Aunt  Jane.  Not  as 
she  t's  my  aunt,  but  we  always  call  her  aunt,  an'  that's  near 
enough.  She've  always  kep'  a  girl  to  help  about  the  house,  an' 
I  knows  as  yours  have  bin  brought  up  to  work.  She  can  do 
light  work  as  long  as  she's  able,  an'  when  she's  not — well, 
p'r'aps  by  that  time  we'll  have  found  out  what  we've  not  found 
out  yet.  Anyways,  this'U  do  for  now.  Aunt  Jane  Fryer  is  as 
good  a  soul  as  need  be,  an'  very  religious.  Not  as  she 
mightn't  be  a  bit  pleasanter  in  her  manner  o'  speakin',  but  I 
finds  that  to  be  the  case  wi'  people  as  is  religious — in  gen'ral. 
They  won't  seem  to  lay  to  heart  that  honey  ketches  more  flies 
than  vinegar.  Her  man  wus  on  the  railway,  an'  wus  run  over 
by  a  goods  train.  I  went  in  to  see  him  'fore  he  died.  She 
wus  that  anxious  about  his  soul  that  she  forgot  his  body,  so  I 
stayed  to  help  her  a  bit.  1  mind  she  wus  terrible  straight 
wi'  me  for  cookin'  him  a  dinner  on  the  Sunday.  She  never 
haves  a  hot  dinner  Sundays.  But  I  did  cook  it,  an'  he  eat  it, 
an'  I've  liked  to  think  as  he  did,  for  the  very  next  Sunday  he 
wus  where  dinners  didn't  matter  to  'im.  But  she  was  that 
huffy !  She  set  at  the  table  an'  read  the  lessons  for  the  day 
with  her  face  as  red  as  fire,  an'  her  back  as  stiff  as  buckram. 
Still,  Aunt  Jane  is  a  wonderful  good  woman  !  She'll  do  your 
Annie  good,  an'  as  1  says,  it's  the  best  we  can  do  for  now." 

As  one  result  of  this  conversation,  Annie  stood  on  the 
platform  of  the  village  station,  with  a  band-box  tied  up  with 
string,  and  her  other  odd  possessions  in  a  red,  white-spotted 
cotton  handkerchief. 

"  Be  a  good  gal,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  wiping  her  eyes, 

4X 


4*  Bnnie  2)eane 

"  an'  I'll  come  an'  see  ye'  'fore  many  weeks  is  over,  if  I  can. 

Mi  id  you  do  what's  to  be  done  all  neat  and  clean.  It's 
dreadful  hard  on  me!  for  Alice  is  such  a  poor  hand  with  a 
baby  !  Here's  the  train.  Stan'  back  a  bit.  Have  ye  got  the 
envelope  an'  the  stamp  to  let  me  know  as  you've  got  there 
safe?  Good-bye,  an'  mind  as  you're  grateful  to  Mrs.  Fryer 
for  a  havin'  of  ye.     It  isn't  many  as  would." 

Pk.n  hour  or  so  later  Annie  followed  Mrs.  Fryer  up  the  narrow 
garden  path  which  led  to  that  lady's  residence.  Not  an  impos- 
ing residence  in  point  of  size,  but  exceedingly  prim,  and  spick- 
and-span,  and  stiff  in  its  interior  arrangement.  The  fuschias 
and  oak  geraniums  in  the  front  parlour  window — carefully  tied 
back  to  little  painted  ladders — were  stiff;  the  netted  curtains 
were  stiff;  the  tables — a  round  one  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
a  collapsible  one  with  leaves  at  one  side — were  stiff;  so  was 
the  horse-hair  sofa,  so  were  the  chairs.  The  framed  photo- 
graph of  a  sailor,  mounted  upon  cloth  and  surrounded  by 
British  flags  laboriously  copied  in  coloured  wools,  was  stiff ;  so 
was  the  uncanny-looking  "  Genealogical  Tree " ;  so  was  the 
pile  of  musty  books — all  theological  and  desperately  dry — 
which  adorned  the  side-table ;  so  was  the  case  of  ghastly  wax 
flowers  which  adorned  the  centre  one.  Annie  involuntarily 
drew  herself  up.  Mother  was  always  chiding  her  for  "stooping." 
She  felt  that  this  would  not  be  necessary  here.  The  very 
atmosphere  of  Mrs.  Fryer's  front  parlour  would  keep  her  upright. 
She  followed  her  new  friend  into  the  little  back  room  in  a  silence 
so  profound  that  the  clock  as  it  ticked  seemed  to  be  taking  a 
liberty.  Annie  half  expected  to  see  Mrs.  Fryer  go  to  the  wall 
and  stop  it.  No  disorder,  nothing  out  of  its  proper  place,  no 
children — no  sign  of  anything  young  or  lively  1  Annie's  heart 
sank,  and  her  eyes  filled  for  the  twentieth  time  that  day. 
When  she  had  taken  her  band-box  upstairs,  and  had  found  her 
way  down  again,  Mrs.  Fryer  announced  that  she  was  going 
down  the  street  to  the  grocer's,  and  that  she  would  be  obliged 
by  Annie  watering  the  front  garden  ;  but  she  must  please  not  to 
make  a  slop,  and  on  no  account  must  she  talk  to  the  neighbours. 

The  girl  carefully  carried  out  her  instructions.  When  the 
garden  was  watered,  Mrs.  Fryer  had  not  returned,  so  her 
charge  moved  reverently  about  the  front  parlour,  and,  having 
examined  the  various  objects  of  interest,  thought  she  might 
look  at  the  books.  At  the  bottom  of  the  pile  was  a  Family 
Bible,  then  a  "  Life  of  Christ,"  then  the  "  Sermons "  of  a 
defunct  divine,  with  a  "  Memoir  "  of  said  divine  by  another 
divine,  then  Watts'  "  Hymns,"  then  Keble's,  then  the  "  Pilgrim''s 


**5n  tbe  2)ea&,  TUnbappi?  IRfgbt'*         43 

Progress,"  with  illustrations  which  haunted  Annie  every  night 
for  many  a  week  after,  then  Venn's  "  Complete  Duty  of  Man," 
then  Sturm's  "Reflections,"  then  a  tiny  Book  of  Common 
Prayer,  and  the  "  Christian  Year."  The  "  Reflections  "  being 
somewhat  attractively  bound  in  bright  blue  and  gold,  Annie 
opened  them,  and  was  immediately  fascinated  by  the  frontis- 
piece, in  which  a  gentleman  in  a  high  black  "  stock "  and 
irreproachable  pantaloons  is  inviting  a  lady  in  short  sleeves  and  a 
bodice  only  suitable  for  a  ball-room,  to  go  with  him  into  "  some 
flowery  valley  and  there  sing  a  hymn  of  praise." 

The  incongruous  nature  of  the  illustration  did  not  occur  to 
Annie.  She  only  thought  how  easy  it  must  be  to  sing  hymns 
of  praise  in  such  a  lovely  place  as  this  elegant  pair  had  all  to 
themselves,  and  how  easy  it  must  be  to  be  good  when  all  the 
good  things  of  life  were  showered  upon  one  in  profusion.  She 
turned  over  the  leaves  to  see  if  there  were  anything  said  about 
the  elegant  pair,  but  found  there  was  nothing,  and  put  back  the 
book.  She  next  tried  to  get  at  the  Family  Bible,  and 
succeeded  at  the  cost  of  a  fright.  The  pile  of  heavy  books 
held  a  set  of  japanned  trays  in  place  against  the  wall.  The 
books  being  disturbed,  down  came  the  trays,  with  a  bang  and 
a  clatter  peculiar  to  tin  trays  and  to  no  other  articles  under  the 
sun. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fryer,  running  up  the  garden 
path  ;  "  what's  that  ?  " 

Ashamed  and  startled,  Annie  restored  the  side  table  to  its 
accustomed  order,  while  Mrs.  Fryer  looked  on. 

"I'm  not  sayin'  that  I  mind  you  lookin'  at  a  book,"  said  she; 
"for  there's  nothing  but  good  books  in  my  house;  but  still, 
it's  always  safe  to  ask  first.  To  touch  things  without  leave  is 
to  take  a  liberty ;  but  that,  I  daresay,  you  didn't  understand." 

Just  at  first  she  did  not,  but  comprehension  of  such  matters 
soon  developed  in  her.  Her  life  with  Mrs.  Fryer  was  not 
a  happy  one.  She  was  not  imposed  upon,  nor  hard-worked. 
Being  a  good  worker,  clean  and  quick,  she  gave  satisfaction  in 
that  way,  and  was  even  anxious  for  more  to  do;  but  Mrs.  Fryer 
had  two  causes  of  complaint.  Annie  seized  every  opportunity 
to  creep  away — when  she  cried  herself  stupid  and  ill — and  she 
would  not  talk. 

"  I  shall  get  it  all  out  of  her,  never  fear,"  Mrs.  Fryer  had 
said  to  Mrs.  Drake.  "She  will  tell  me  all  about  it  when  she 
gets  a  bit  used  to  me." 

But  all  the  artful  "  pumping  "  in  the  world  took  Mrs.  Fryer 
no  nearer  to  the  truth  :  which  was  exasperating  to  the  common 


44  Bnnfe  Deane 

female  mind.  When  the  woman  found  that  all  her  questioning 
was  useless,  her  synipathy  became  blunted,  then  wore  quite  away; 
and  as  her  feeling  towards  the  girl  could  not  remain  stationary, 
it  quickly  developed  into  dislike. 

"  You're  no  innocent,"  thought  Mrs.  Fryer  grimly ;  "  you're 
deep,  and  about  as  deep  as  they  make  'em." 

Feeling  herself  disliked,  Annie  grew  dull  and  irretched. 
At  a  time  when  most  women  are  gently  dealt  with,  she  was 
left  to  feel  her  way  along  a  path  beset  at  every  step  with 
the  terrors  of  the  Unknown.  What  those  terrors  meant 
to  the  girl  only  she  knew ;  what  the  long  and  lonely  nights 
were  to  her  she  could  not  have  told  anyone.  If  a  young  head 
ever  turned  grey  with  fear,  then  had  Annie's  been  grey  indeed. 
Accustomed  from  her  childhhood  to  sleep  with  children — to 
feel  the  warmth  of  child-life  on  her  arm,  the  stir  of  child-life 
all  about  her — to  wake  up  now  in  the  dark,  alone,  and  hear 
nothing  but  the  solemn,  mysterious  "  buzz  "  of  absolute  silence 
was  torture,  such  as  had  surely  sufficed  for  the  girl's  punish- 
ment, had  she  had  no  other. 

For  the  first  two  or  three  weeks  she  said  nothing,  only  tried 
to  conquer  herself,  to  fight  against  the  terror  which  seized  her 
when  she  woke  after  her  first  brief  sleep,  and  realised  that  for 
four  or  five  interminable  hours  she  must  lie  there  listening  to 
the  creaky  sounds  in  the  bare,  dark  room,  while  her  heart  beat 
so  that  it  shook  her  w'nole  frame,  and  the  bed  on  which  she  lay. 

•*  I  won't  have  another  night  like  this,"  she  would  moan  to 
herself  as  she  lay  huddled  under  the  clothes.  "  It'll  do  worse 
than  kill  me — it'll  drive  me  mad." 

But  the  grey  light  would  faintly  outline  the  window-panes 
once  more,  and  Annie's  poor  heart  would  gradually  slow  down. 
Daylight  was  coming,  and  the  phantoms  born  of  the  darkness 
Would  glide  away.  Then,  worn  out,  the  girl  would  sleep 
heavily  until  Mrs.  Fryer's  sharp  voice  awoke  her  with  a  start. 

Still,  she  said  nothing  of  these  terrible  nights.  With  the  sun- 
light lying  brightly  over  everything,  it  was  not  easy  to  keep  the 
realism  of  them  alive  ;  and  but  for  a  sort  of  mental  dulness 
which  grew  upon  her  day  by  day,  she  might  have  doubted 
the  existence  of  the  phantom  army  which  mustered  in  her  dark 
room  every  night. 

"  If  I  say  anything  to  ^r,"  she  thought,  as  she  went  wearily 
about  her  work,  "  she'll  only  tell  me  I'm  wicked  to  be  afraid  o' 
the  dark.  If  ever  I  knows  any  poor  soul  who's  got  to  be  by 
theirselves  at  night,  I  hope  I  won't  forget  to  help  'em  through 
if  lean." 


**5n  tbe  5>ea&,  TUnbappp  IFltgbt"         4S 

The  time  came  when  silent  endurance  became  impossible. 
One  night  at  the  end  of  March  she  woke  from  a  ghastly  dream, 
streaming  with  cold  perspiration  and  shaking  in  every  limb. 
The  wind  was  blowing  a  hurricane,  and  a  waning  moon  gleamed 
out  from  masses  of  scurrying  cloud.  It  seemed  to  Annie  that 
the  very  fiends  were  loose,  and  shrieking  to  be  taken  into 
human  pity  and  shelter.  She  lay  for  a  moment  in  stupid  fear, 
wondering  whence  came  those  awful  cries.  She  told  herself 
it  was  only  the  wind,  and  surely  that  was  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  But  what  was  the  wind  ?  And  then  there  came  into  her 
mind  a,  thing  she  had  once  heard  said  by  a  preacher  who 
should  never  have  been  permitted  to  preach  to  the  ignorant. 
He,  indulging  in  language  of  the  flowery  order,  had  tried  to 
impress  upon  his  audience  the  existence  of  a  devil  of  the 
material  sort,  and  had  alluded  to  him  with  bated  breath  and 
upraised  hand  as  "  The  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air."  The 
terrible  sounding  sentence,  together  with  the  solemn-grotesque 
imagery  it  conjured  up,  had  taken  firm  hold  on  Annie's 
childish  mind ;  and  ever  since  then  the  howling  of  the  wind 
had  suggested  to  her  the  very  presence  of  the  Evil  One  and  his 
flying  satellites.  As  a  fresh  blast  smote  her  chattering  window 
afresh,  that  old  "  bogie  "  of  her  childhood,  oddly  mixed  up  with 
ApoUyon,  p/us  two  horns  and  a  luxuriant  tail,  started  into  fresh 
life  and  unhinged  her  altogether.  Her  hair  lifted,  and  cold 
hands  seemed  to  be  pressing  upon  her  face.  Too  terrified  to 
move,  she  burst  into  a  blood  curdling  shriek,  which  echoed 
through  the  tiny  house,  and  resulted  in  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Fryer,  struggling  with  a  sputtering  candle  and  a  red 
flannel  petticoat. 

"  Dear,  dear  ! "  cried  she,  stumbling  over  the  petticoat,  and 
thereby  extinguishing  the  candle ;  "  what's  the  matter  ?  You 
woke  me  out  of  a  beautiful  sleep,  and  have  given  me  palpita- 
tion o'  the  heart  fit  to  kill  me  !  An'  now  the  candle's  out,  an' 
no  matches  handy!  What  on  earth  made  you  scream  like 
that  ?  " 

"  There's  somethink  in  the  room,"  panted  Annie ;  "  I  know 
there  is  !  I  woke  up  sudden,  an'  I  see  it !  I  felt  it  come  an' 
hold  my  face  down  wi'  two  cold  hands.  Oh,  Mrs.  Fryer,  I'm 
goin'  to  die.  I'm  sure  I  am  !  That  thing  meant  I  wus. 
Somethink  like  that  come  an'  touched  mother  the  night  as 
gran'father  died." 

"To  the  moon  with  your  rubbish!"  cried  Mrs.  Fryer 
angrily,  "  and  with  your  mother  too,  for  ever  filling  your  head 
with  such  foolery.     Here,  now,  get  into  bed  directly  1    You'll 


46  Bnnie  S)eane 

give  yourself  your  death,  and  then  blame  it  on  to  something 
which  never  happened.  I  declare  you've  frightened  me  out  of 
my  wits  ! " 

"  But  not  like  I'm  frightened,"  moaned  the  girl ;  "  an'  ev'ry 
night's  the  same.  Nobody  knows  how  I  tries  not  to  be  afraid, 
but  I  am.  It's  no  good  sayin'  I'm  foolish.  Nights  like  this'll 
kill  me." 

"  The  fact  is,  Annie,"  Mrs.  Fryer  said  severely,  *'  your  con- 
science is  at  work  with  you.  If  you  was  to  up  and  tell  the 
truth,  you'd  be  able  to  sleep  fast  enough.  You  can't  hide  away 
from  God,  Annie.  It's  Him  that  speaks  to  you  in  the  dark, 
and  until  you've  confessed,  He  won't  let  you  alone." 

Colder  than  ever  went  Annie. 

"  Let  me  dress,"  cried  she,  in  terror.  "  I'll  come  an'  sit  in 
your  room — I'll  sit  outside,  or  anythink — on'y  let  me  know  as 
there's  somebody  near  to  speak  to." 

"  Well,  then,  come  into  my  bed.  I  can't  have  my  night's 
rest  broke  into  like  this  for  your  nonsense !  " 

So  Annie  lay  shivering  beside  Mrs.  Fryer,  while  that  excellent 
person  pointed  out  to  her  the  sinfulness  of  concealment,  and 
the  certainty  of  consequent  suffering.  Annie  began  to  wonder 
if  concealment  of  a  sin  were  worse  than  the  sin  itself.  Mrs. 
Fryer's  sermon  seemed  to  point  that  way.  But  much  as  the  girl 
might  wonder  whether  or  not  she  ought  to  confess,  she  had  no 
intention  of  doing  so.  She  could  not  have  said  why,  but  she 
felt  why.  To  keep  that  part  of  her  trouble  to  herself  was  her 
one  gleam  of  comfort  in  the  matter.  Deep  down  in  her  heart 
was  the  image  of  the  man  who  had  deserted  her,  and  she  would 
have  suffered  martyrdom  rather  than  have  dragged  that  image 
forth  to  desecrate  it  in  the  light  of  common  day.  Her  nature, 
slow  to  receive  impressions,  was  extremely  tenacious  of  them, 
once  received. 

But  for  her  meeting  with  that  nameless  man,  she  might  have 
gone  through  life  as  maiden — wife — mother — all  of  the  very 
ordinary  kind.  Awakened  by  that  meeting  with  him  to  feeling 
— to  love — to  passion — to  abandonment  of  Right,  and  surrender 
of  Self — all  in  one  breath  as  it  were,  she  had  not  yet  found  her 
level  again.  Further  mental  or  moral  progress  was  for  the  time 
arrested.  She  was  still  a  very  child  in  her  ignorance.  Ruined 
for  ever  in  the  world's  eyes,  she  had  yet  to  learn  what  this 
meant,  and,  having  learnt,  to  resent  it  with  all  the  might  of  a 
nature  which  was  narrow,  and  which  education  had  had  no 
chance  of  widening.  But  it  is  just  this  kind  of  girl  who  some- 
times stops  at  her  first  slip  and  goes  no  further.     The  narrow 


"5n  tbe  2)eat>,  mnbappi?  Biabt"         47 

mind  narrows  the  sympathies,  and  keeps  the  heart  from  stray- 
ing any  more  for  ever. 

What  with  her  fright  and  her  real  desire  to  conciliate  Mrs, 
Fryer,  Annie  had  hard  work  to  abstain  from  part  confession  as 
she  lay  shaking  there  that  night.  She  wanted  present  kind- 
ness, present  sympathy,  and  she  felt  that  if  she  confessed  these 
things  would  be  hers.  Also,  if  she  did  confess,  he  would  not 
suffer  !  None  of  her  people  could  trace  him  unless  by  means 
of  his  photograph.  Annie  lay  pondering  these  matters  while 
Mrs.  Fryer  admonished,  threatened,  and  drew  graphic  sketches 
of  terrible  punishments  ahead.  But  pondering  produced  no 
confession.  At  last  Mrs.  Fryer  grew  weary,  likening  Annie's 
heart  to  that  one  of  Pharaoh's  ;  and  then  she  abandoned  herself 
to  sleep,  while  over  the  Berkshire  town  the  dawn  rose,  chasing 
the  silent  night-army  for  a  few  more  hours,  and  shutting 
Annie's  secret  more  tightly  than  ever  within  her  breast. 

Throughout  that  day  Mrs.  Fryer  was  frigidly  severe.  She 
had  a  bad  headache,  consequent,  she  said,  upon  the  breaking 
of  her  rest. 

"  We  will  go  to  bed  early  to-night,"  she  remarked  at  tea- 
time  ;  "  for  I  had  next  to  no  sleep  at  all  last  night,  and  no  more 
had  you." 

Annie  whitened  at  the  thought  of  the  long  night  ahead. 

"  Am  I  to  sleep  with  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No ;  you  must  sleep  in  your  own  room.  If  you  will  not 
make  a  friend  of  me  in  one  way  you  can't  expect  to  in  another. 
Now,  I  hope  you  will  go  to  sleep  like  a  sensible  girl,  and  not 
let  us  have  any  nonsense  about  cold  hands  and  the  like.  It's 
downright  story-telling." 

"It's  dreadful  truth,"  said  Annie  ruefully. 

"Then  what  you  see  is  sent  tj  make  you  a  better  girl,  and 
I  hope  it  will  have  that  effect." 

White  as  a  sheet  went  Annie. 

"  If  you  was  to  know  what  it  is,"  she  faltered. 

"  I'm  thankful  to  say  I  don't.  Night  is  as  safe  as  day  to  the 
Lord's  people." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  the  girl  said  hurriedly,  "  it's  jest  use.  I  can't 
sleep  becos'  I'm  so  used  to  the  children.  I  do  miss  'em  so 
at  night.  Why,  there's  five  in  my  room  besides  me,  an*  to  be 
alone  sends  me  mad.  It's  nothink  to  make  game  of — it  sends 
me  mad." 

"  Well,  then,  you  will  have  to  go  back  home." 

Annie's  colour  came  back. 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  o'  one  thing  as  would  get  over  it,"  said 


4«  Bnnte  Deane 

she  hesitatingly.  "I've  bin  goin'  to  ast  you  ever  so  many 
times.  It's  about  the  baby — mother's  baby.  He's  so  good  I 
never  a  bit  o'  trouble  wi'  me.  He'll  lay  on  the  floor,  as  long 
as  he  can  see  me,  wi'  two  bits  o'  wood,  or  a  bit  o'  paper 
what'll  rustle,  an'  he'll  jest  talk  to  hisself  in  his  way,  an'  be  no 
trouble  to  nobody.  You'd  scarce  know  there  wus  a  baby  in 
the  house.  If  you'd  let  me  have  baby  I'd  be  so  thankful.  I 
could  bear  the  nights  with  the  baby." 

Mrs.  Fryer's  power  of  speech  temporarily  deserted  her. 

*'  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  she  at  last,  "  I  never  heard  of  such 
impudence  in  all  my  life  !  I  say  nothing  of  the  thing  being 
ridiculous — I'm  only  thinking  of  the  impudence,  and  the  great, 
unbounded  liberty  of  mentioning  such  a  thing  ! " 

"  I  didn't  think  o'  that,"  said  Annie,  beginning  to  cry, 
"  becos'  it's  on'y  me  as  he  could  be  any  trouble  to.  I'd  get  up 
earlier  to  wash  an'  dress  'im.  I  wouldn't  eat  much,  an'  I've  got 
a  few  pence  as  'd  buy  'im  a  little  milk.  A  ha'porth  twice  a  day 
'd  keep  'im,  wi'  what  I  could  spare  o'  my  food." 

But  Mrs.  Fryer  was  still  astonished,  and  could  only  repeat 
that  the  impudence  of  that  request  surpassed  anything  in  her 
experience. 

Annie  said  no  more,  and  at  half-past  eight  went  quakingly 
into  her  bare  bedroom,  trembling  at  the  sound  of  her  own  foot- 
steps, and  ready  to  scream  as  she  listened  to  the  deliberate 
closing  of  Mrs.  Fryer's  door. 

She  threw  off  her  things  and  scrambled  into  bed,  where  she 
spent  the  night  at  close  quarters  with  Terror.  She  lay  there 
paralysed  with  fear,  and  when  Mrs.  Fryer  went  into  the  room 
about  seven  the  next  morning  she  saw  that  here  was  no 
"  shamming,"  the  girl  was  mentally  and  physically  prostrate. 

"  I'll  leave  you  alone  for  an  hour  or  two,"  said  the  startled 
woman ;  *'  a  sleep  will  do  you  good." 

The  girl  neither  answered  nor  moved,  and  two  hours  later, 
when  Mrs.  Fryer  went  up  with  some  tea,  she  saw  that  the 
half-rigid  figure  on  the  bed  had  not  shifted  its  position. 
This  was  alarming.  Mrs.  Fryer  condescended  to  be  human. 
She  coaxed  Annie,  she  scolded  her  with  a  touch  of  playfulness, 
she  did  whatever  occurred  to  her  to  do,  and  at  last,  in  despair, 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  down  the  street  in  search  of  a 
neighbour,  who  was  a  person  of  ex]  erience  and  resource. 

Having  hastily  tied  on  her  bonnet,  she  opened  the  front  door, 
and  there  on  the  step  stood  Mrs.  Deane,  with  a  big  basket  of 
greenstuff  on  one  arm  and  the  baby  on  the  other. 

"  Good  mornin',"  said  she,  panting  under  the  weight  of  her 


**3n  tbe  Deat),  XOlnbapps  iRiabt"         49 

impedimenta.  "  I  come  by  the  early  train.  I  was  anxious  to 
see  Annie." 

"  Come  in,"  cried  Mrs.  Fryer,  rather  flurried ;  "  come  ia 
I'm  really  glad  to  see  you." 

She  found  Mrs.  Deane  a  chair,  outraged  her  very  nature  by 
taking  the  baby,  and  then  proceeded  to  give  a  garbled  account 
of  Annie's  condition  and  its  causes. 

"  You  see,  I  really  didn't  think  that  she  was  so  frightened  as 
all  that.  It  seems  so  silly  in  a  girl  of  her  age,  and  knowing 
that  she'll  have  to  pluck  up  and  get  her  own  living,  I  thought 
It  was  no  use  to  humour  her  to  every  little  thing." 

"  Ah,  that's  true  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Deane  quietly ;  "  but 
now  there's  a  lot  of  allowance,  Mrs.  Fryer ;  an'  our  gals  is  that 
timorsome,  you  can't  think  ! " 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  it's  through  some  mistake  in  their  train- 
ing," retorted  Mrs.  Fryer.  "  What  a  heavy  baby,  to  be  sure  I 
You  know  that  children  brought  up  in  the  right  way  oughtn't 
to  be  afraid  of  the  dark." 

"  Well,  right  or  wrong,  Mrs.  Fryer,  they  mostly  is,  an'  it's  no 
good  turnin'  our  backs  on  such  fancies  jest  becos'  we're  older, 
an'  have  got  over  'em.  If  you've  shut  your  door  at  night  an* 
left  Annie  all  alone  it's  bin  cruel,  an'  I  wish  I'd  known  it." 

"  I'm  sure  no  one  can  ever  lay  cruelty  to  my  door,"  said 
Mrs.  Fryer.  "  I'm  a  God-fearing  woman,  Mrs.  Deane ;  but 
perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  that  you  take  the  girl  away." 

Poor  Mrs.  Deane  drew  in.  If  she  took  the  girl  away,  what 
could  she  do  with  her  ?  Mrs.  Fryer  understood  that  perfectly. 
She  did  not  want  to  send  Annie  away,  because  she  was  a  good 
worker,  both  in  the  household  and  with  her  needle.  Besides, 
had  not  Mrs.  Drake  assured  Aunt  Jane  that  if  she  had  the 
girl  she  should  not  be  a  loser  ?  And  was  not  the  word  of  Mrs. 
Drake  a  thing  to  be  trusted  ? 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  an  awkward  pause,  "  111  go  up  and 
let  her  know  you're  here." 

She  went  up.  At  the  word  "mother"  Annie's  dull  eyes 
took  on  a  gleam  of  intelligence,  but  she  made  no  further 
response,  and  Mrs.  Fryer,  in  some  trepidation,  went  down,  and 
sent  up  the  mother  and  the  baby.  Their  familiar  presence 
penetrated  the  lethargy  which  wrapped  Annie  about  as  nothing 
else  could  have  done  ;  and  when  the  crowing  baby  crawled  up 
the  bed,  patted  her  face  and  pulled  her  hair,  the  desolate  girl 
gave  a  broken-hearted  gasp,  then  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs, 
out  of  which  at  last  came  one  intelligible  cry — 

"  Mother — mother — do — take — me — home  ! "  at  which  the 


50  Bnnie  Beane 

poor  mother  sat  down  and  cried  too,  that  this  should  be  the 
thing  of  all  others  which  she  could  not  do. 

"  I've  got  no  room  for  ye,  child,"  she  said,  wringing  her 
hard  hands  together,  "  an'  it  wouldn't  do.  It  do  seem  hard  to 
turn  our  backs  on  ye  for  the  sake  o'  what  neighbours  'd  say ; 
an'  if  'twasn't  for  the  childern,  an'  so  many  of  'em  in  the  bit 
of  a  place,  I'd  take  ye  back  an'  tell  'em  to  say  what  they 
liked."_ 

Annie  turned  away  with  a  moan,  but  recovered  somewhat  as 
the  day  went  on,  and  before  Mrs.  Deane  left  Mrs.  Fryer  made 
a  great  concession.  In  the  solemn  atmosphere  of  the  front 
parlour  she  told  her  visitor  that  as  she  had  the  baby  here,  he 
might  be  left  behind  for  a  few  days,  which  announcement 
reconciled  Annie  to  the  idea  of  remaining  in  Reading. 

The  baby  was  left  behind.  Annie's  plate  went  empty  that 
his  might  be  full,  and  her  cup  of  poor  tea  was  often  quite 
innocent  of  milk  or  sugar;  but  she  went  to  bed  with  the  child 
in  her  arms,  and  was  as  happy  as  she  could  well  be  under  the 
circumstances. 

Now,  Master  Willie  Deane  was  a  good  child  as  children  go, 
but  Mrs.  Fryer  was  fidgety,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  had 
begun  to  feel  that  a  baby  in  the  house  was  an  insufferable 
nuisance.  But  how  to  get  rid  of  the  baby  ?  He  could  not  be 
sent  home  in  a  hamper  like  any  other  little  animal,  and  to  re- 
quest his  parents  to  come  and  fetch  him  was  to  impose  upon 
them  a  heavy  penalty  of  the  railway-fare  order.  So  the  days 
slipped  by  until  Willie  had  been  an  unwelcome  guest  for  more 
than  three  weeks,  and  Mrs.  Fryer  felt  that  her  hospitality  might 
come  to  an  end. 

"  I  think  Willie  had  better  go  home,"  she  said  one  morning, 
when  the  child  had  been  troublesome.  "  It  is  quite  time  that 
you  had  a  rest  from  carrying  him  about." 

Annie's  colour  came  and  went. 

"I  don't  find  him  heavy,"  she  said  timidly,  "an'  I  hope  he 
haven't  been  no  expense  to  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  the  thing.  He  upsets  the  place,  and  you'd 
better  write  and  tell  your  mother  to  fetch  him." 

But  Annie,  though  she  wrote  to  her  mother,  did  so  in  such 
a  way  that  Mrs.  Deane  wrote  back  begging  another  week  for 
the  baby.  Father's  club  money  had  emptied  the  family  coffers ; 
besides  which,  Mrs.  Drake  talked  of  coming,  and  would  bring 
WiUie  back  with  her. 

The  child  took  a  good  bit  of  looking  after.  Though  still 
unable  to  walk,  he  could  get  from  one  room  to  another  by 


**3n  tbe  DeaD,  Tllnbapps  Tliabt"         5» 

means  of  the  zig-zag  wriggle  peculiar  to  his  tribe.  Also,  he 
could  pull  himself  up  by  the  furniture,  and  thus  reach  articles 
which  might  reasonably  have  been  supposed  to  be  beyond 
him.  His  spirit  of  enterprise  kept  Annie  on  the  alert,  and 
one  morning  at  the  end  of  April  there  came  a  crash  in  more 
senses  than  one.  The  girl  was  busy,  and  failed  to  keep  strict 
watch  over  the  baby's  movements.  Therefore,  one  moment 
beheld  him  seated  on  the  floor  of  the  back  room,  the  next  saw 
him  advancing  by  means  of  his  patent  wriggle  towards  the 
sanctuary  of  the  front  parlour,  the  next  witnessed  him  pulling 
himself  up  by  the  tablecloth,  and  the  next  found  him  upon  his 
back  on  the  floor,  surrounded  by  the  theological  books  in  a 
state  of  demoralisation,  and  by  the  debris  of  the  basket  of  wax 
flowers,  glass-shade  and  all !  Poor  Annie !  All  the  king's  horses 
and  all  the  king's  men  could  not  put  that  horrible  wax-work 
together  again,  and  Mrs.  Fryer  had  set  upon  it  a  value  quite 
fictitious  and  appalling.  In  vain  Annie  pleaded  the  baby's 
ignorance  and  customary  good  conduct.  Mrs.  Fryer  put  him 
across  her  knee,  and  having  made  one  part  of  his  infant  person 
very  red,  she  sat  him  down  upon  it,  and  told  him  that  he  had 
broken  something  which  could  never  be  replaced  on  fhi's  side 
of  the  grave.  Annie,  weeping  as  she  swept  up  the  fragments, 
devoutly  hoped  that  wax  flowers  under  glass-shades  might  be 
unknown  on  the  other.  She  wrote  a  piteous  letter  home,  and 
Mrs.  Deane  came  in  hot  haste  to  fetch  Willie  away.  He  went, 
cheerfully  unconscious  to  the  last  of  the  gravity  of  his  offence ; 
or,  if  conscious — impenitent.  So  far  from  making  any  attempt 
to  conciliate  Mrs.  Fryer,  he  treated  her  firmly  as  one  who  had 
dealt  him  injustice. 

Little  sympathy  was  shown  towards  Annie  in  the  hurry  and 
the  petty  bickerings  of  the  two  women. 

"  Children  would  be  children,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  with  a 
martyrised  air,  "and  what  was  Willie  but  a  baby  ?  " 

To  which  Mrs.  Fryer  responded  that  she  was  aware  of  it, 
but  that  children,  be  they  ever  so  young,  could  be  taught  to 
«  mind." 

So  Annie  helped  to  carry  the  baby  to  the  station,  and  felt 
very  guilty  and  wretched  as  she  did  so. 

"  Now,"  said  her  mother  at  parting,  "  ye  mustn't  be  fright- 
ened nor  silly,  an'  you  must  bear  in  mind  what  we  owes 
to  Mrs.  Fryer  for  havin'  ye  here.  An'  really,  ye  should  ha' 
minded  Willie  carefuller.  I  dessay  she  -wus  put  out  at  havin* 
her  nice  glass-shade  broke  When  things  is  right  agen,  please 
God,  you'll  go  to  service,  an'  then  the  first  money  you  earns 


$9  Bnnie  Beane 

must  go  to  payin'  for  that  shade.  I'll  try  an'  see  ye  agen 
before  long;  but  if  I  can't,  why,  I  can't.  Ye  see  this  railway 
ridin'  takes  the  very  money  we  wants  to  keep  us  decent. 
Father's  most  at  his  wits'  end,  an'  the  children's  feet's  on  the 
ground.  If  I  hadn't  ha'  come  here  to-day,  Ben  could  ha'  had  a 
pair  o'  boots  come  Saturday." 

Annie  hugged  the  baby,  and  gave  him  a  sponge-cake  bought 
coming  along  with  her  last  available  penny.  Then  the  train 
moved  off,  and  the  girl  turned  away. 

She  looked  very  thoughtful  as  she  went  along,  and  before 
turning  into  Friar  Street  stopped  to  take  a  shabby  purse  from 
her  pocket  and  assure  herself  of  the  safety  of  its  contents. 
Clutching  the  purse  tightly,  she  walked  on  to  the  busy  part  of 
the  town,  looking  about  for  a  likely  shop. 

*'  Take  it  to  any  large  shop,"  her  letter  had  said.  She  took 
it  to  the  largest  she  could  find.  Here  they  declined  to  take 
any  trouble  for  her,  so  she  went  somewhere  else — without 
success.  Then  she  tried  a  chemist's,  where  her  precious  bit  of 
paper  was  taken  from  her,  held  up  to  the  light,  and  otherwise 
examined,  but  at  length  handed  back  to  her,  with  a  tranquil 
gesture  signifying — refusal.     This  frightened  her. 

"  Isn't  it  good?  "  she  burst  out  piteously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  good  enough  ;  but  I  cannot  change  it." 

She  breathed  agam  and  turned  away. 

"  I'll  take  it  to  our  grocer's,"  thought  she.  "  They'll  change 
it.    They'll  think  it's  for  Mrs.  Fryer." 

The  grocer's  assistant  knew  her,  and  nodded  pleasantly  as 
he  took  the  note  to  the  desk.  But  the  cashier  looked  surprised, 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  still  fingering  it  suspiciously,  walked 
down  the  shop  to  Annie,  who  was  turning  rather  sick  with 
suspense. 

"  Am  I  to  take  Mrs.  Fryer's  account  from  this  ?  ** 

"  Oh,  please,  no  t "  she  said  eagerly  ;  "  it's  mine." 

"  H'm  ! "  He  looked  more  surprised  than  before,  and 
walked  back  to  the  desk,  where  he  remained  so  long  that  Annie 
lost  her  head  What  were  they  doing  with  her  fortune  ?  Oh, 
horrible  suspicion !  were  they  going  to  get  it  away  from  her  ? 
She  went  up  to  the  de^k,  with  her  fright  visible  in  her  eyes. 

"  Please,"  faltered  she,  "  where's  my  money  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  to  send  the  note  out.  We  banked  this 
afternoon,  and  are  short  of  change  " 

She  stood  for  quite  ten  minutes,  shaking  with  apprehension, 
while  the  grocer's  boy  went  to  two  or  three  shops,  and  varied 
his  occupation  by  reading  a  little  sensational  literature.      At 


**Bn  tbe  Beab,  TDlnbappi?  tiiQW*         53 

hst,  having  obtained  the  change  and  mastered  the  contents  of 
his  week's  instalment,  that  grocer's  boy  handed  Annie's  fortune 
to  the  cashier,  who  in  turn  handed  it  to  the  owner.  She  put 
the  money  in  her  purse,  the  purse  in  her  handkerchief,  and  both 
articles  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown.  How  selfish  she  felt  as  she 
walked  away  from  the  shop,  thinking  of  mother  and  Ben's  bare 
feet !  Ben  was  such  an  enemy  to  shoe-leather  !  She  was 
terribly  hungry,  but  she  walked  on,  looking  straight  ahead, 
because  the  shop  windows  should  not  tempt  her.  Besides, 
Willie  having  departed,  she  would  be  at  liberty  to  eat  a  bit 
more  herself,  and  could  have  some  milk  and  sugar  in  her  tea 
to-night. 

Reaching  home  she  found  tea  in  full  swing,  the  best  china  in 
use,  also  the  plated  teapot,  while  the  centre  of  the  table  was 
occupied  by  a  sixpenny  **  Madeira  "  cake.  These  things  were 
in  honour  of  Mrs.  Fryer's  niece,  who  was  unexpectedly  present, 
and  of  whom  Mrs.  Fryer  thought  a  great  deal. 

Annie  was  severely  scolded  for  having  been  absent  longer 
than  was  necessary,  so  severely  that  but  for  hunger  she  would 
have  retreated  to  the  back  kitchen  and  stayed  there.  But 
hunger  was  stronger  than  pride,  so  she  ate  her  tea  in  silence, 
while  the  smart  stranger  held  forth  on  the  splendours  and 
advantages  of  "  service  "  in  good  families.  The  smart  stranger 
hailed  from  London,  which  fact  surrounded  her  with  a  halo  of 
fascination  for  Annie. 

"  Oh !  I'm  quite  my  own  mistress,"  said  she,  with  a  smile. 
"Talk  of  a  shop  assistant  being  better  off  than  us  ?  We  have 
plenty  of  the  best  of  everything ;  in  fact,  they'd  know  better 
than  to  expect  us  to  eat  anything  else — every  Sunday  out  unless 
there's  something  unusual,  one  half  day  in  the  week,  besides  a 
whole  day  once  a  month,  and  a  fortnight  at  whatever  time  of 
the  year  we  happen  to  prefer.  Then  every  year  we  have  a  rise 
of  salary." 

Mrs.  Fryer  sat  rigidly  upright. 

"  You're  forgetting  one  thing,  'Liza,"  said  she  severely.  "  All 
these  things  are  only  open  te  those  who,  like  yourself,  bear  an 
unblemished  character.^' 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  the  fortunate  young  person,  as  she 
dropped  her  eyes,  "  that  is  indispensable.^^ 

After  tea  Mrs.  Fryer  went  up  to  dress,  preparatory  to 
accompanying  her  niece  part  of  the  way  home. 

"  Ever  been  to  London  ?  "  said  the  young  lady  to  Annie. 

"  No.     It's  a  big  place,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Immense.     I  couldn't  give  you  any  idea." 


54  annlc  2)eane 

"  Do  you  know  where  Regent  Street  is  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  It's  one  of  the  principal  West  End  streets— 
everyone  knows  it." 

Annie  coloured  with  suppressed  excitement. 

"  Could  anyone  lose  themselves  in  London  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  how.  There  are  too  many  iDuses  and 
cars  and  policemen  about  Besides,  you've  always  a  tongue  in 
your  head." 

"  Your  friends  live  here,  don't  they  ?  What'd  you  do  if  you 
wusill?" 

"  Go  to  a  hospital.  You  are  much  better  attended  to  than 
you  could  be  at  home." 

Here  Mrs.  Fryer  came  down  and  walked  off  with  her  niece. 
Annie  proceeded  to  wash  up  the  best  china,  to  eat  a  piece  of 
bread  and  butter  left  on  the  plate,  and  to  pour  some  hot  water 
into  the  few  spoonfuls  of  strong  tea  which  the  young  lady  from 
London  had  thought  it  "  correct "  to  leave  in  her  cup.  By  the 
time  she  had  put  everything  away  Mrs.  Fryer  returned. 

"  My  niece  wants  me  to  spend  the  day  with  her  to-morrow," 
said  she.  "  Would  you  mind  being  left  ?  I  should  be  back 
before  dark." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  at  all,"  said  Annie. 

"  Then  let  us  get  to  bed.     You  can  sleep  with  me." 

This  was  a  good  hearing.  Annie  slept  soundly,  and  woke 
the  next  morning  feeling  much  better  and  brighter  than  she  had 
done  for  some  time. 

Mrs.  Fryer  left  the  house  about  eleven,  having  left  Annie  a 
bit  of  cold  meat,  some  bread,  a  pinch  of  tea  in  one  piece  of 
paper,  and  a  spoonful  of  sugar  in  another. 

"  There's  some  beautiful  dripping  on  the  shelf,"  she  said  as 
she  departed,  "  so  you  won't  want  to  meddle  with  the  butter. 
Mind  you  have  a  fire  for  me  by  the  time  I  come  home.  You 
may  let  it  out  now.     You  won't  want  it,  working  about." 

To  make  sure  it  was  let  out  she  turned  back,  took  off  the 
greater  part  of  the  "  live  "  coal,  pushed  it  under  the  grate,  and 
scuttled  out  of  the  smoke  post  haste.  Annie  instantly  put  the 
kettle  over  the  remains  of  the  fire,  made  her  tea,  ate  dinner 
and  tea  together  with  evident  relish,  then  cleared  everything 
tidily  away  ;  after  which  she  went  up  and  straightened  her  bed- 
room, put  all  her  things  into  one  bundle,  and  was  about  to 
carry  the  bundle  downstairs  when  she  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"Who's  that? "  cried  she  pettishly.     "The  veg'table  man,  I 


*'2Fn  tbe  S)ea&,  TUnbapp^  naigbt"         ss 

suppose,  an'  we  don't  want  nothink,  but  perhaps  I'd  better 
answer." 

"  Nothink  to-day,  thank  you,"  she  said  civilly,  as  she  opened 
ihe  door,  and  then  she  dropped  back,  with  a  cry  of  dismay,  for 
there  on  the  clean,  red  bricks  in  front  of  the  spotless  door-step 
stood  Jim  Drake 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  NOT  A  GENTLEMAN 

He  looked  at  the  girl,  and  then  away.  Red  as  she  was,  he  was 
redder  still ;  filled  with  shame  as  she  was,  he  was  full  too,  and 
brimming  over.  He  looked  down  at  his  boots,  investigating 
them  each  in  turn,  then  both  together ;  but  if  he  were  looking 
for  his  voice,  he  failed  to  find  it.  There  was  a  moment  of  em- 
barrassing silence ;  the  door  began  to  swing  slowly  shut.  Jim 
put  his  foot  on  the  step  and  kept  it  open. 

"  I  wants  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said.     **  Can  I  come  in  ?  " 

"I  dessay,"  Annie  answered  timidly.  "Mrs.  Fryer  have 
gone  out." 

Jim  went  in,  putting  his  hat,  brim  upwards,  on  the  table. 
Stuck  in  the  lining  was  a  lovely  yellow  rose  in  a  nest  of  brown- 
green  leaves. 

*'  Lord  Kennarven's  gardener  gave  me  this,"  explained  he,  as 
he  held  the  rose  towards  Annie.     '*  I  thought  you'd  like  it." 

She  felt  the  cool  leaves  against  her  fingers,  but  could  see 
nothing,  so  blinded  was  she  with  tears. 

Silence  fell  between  them  again.  Jim  stood  uneasily,  first 
on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other,  while  he  opened  one  after 
another  of  Mrs.  Fryer's  books.  Annie  stood  with  her  back  to 
him,  wondering  what  had  brought  him  there.  The  clock  in 
the  back  room  striking  twelve  reminded  her  that  time  was  more 
precious  to-day  than  usual.     She  made  an  effort  and  spoke : 

"  What  brought  you  here,  Jim  ?  " 

"  I  come  a  purpose  to  see  you.  I  knows  why  you're  here, 
an*  I  come  to  say  that  if  you  likes  I'll — I'll  stan'  by  ye — that 
notwithstandin'." 

She  felt  her  way  to  a  chair,  and  dropped  into  it. 

•*  Oh,  Jim  !  "  she  sobbed  piteously  ;  "  oh,  Jim  /" 

*'  Yes,  I  will.  I've  bin  thinkin'  over  things  ever  since  you 
come  away.  At  first  I  couldn't  make  'ead  nor  tail  o'  what  was 
goin'  on,  but  at  last  our  mother  she  up  an'  told  me.  I  found 
as  they  all  thought  I  had  a  hand  in  it,  but  I  never  said  whether 
'twas  nor  'twasn't  so.  I  jest  made  up  my  mind  to  come  an'  see 
ypu^  an'  what  I  wants  to  say  is  as  I'll  stick  to  ye  through  thick 

S6 


XTbe  /Dan  wbo  was  not  a  Gentleman       si 

an'  thin  !  I've  got  the  blame ;  well,  then,  I'll  take  it.  When 
I've  married  you,  what's  yourn's  mine,  an'  if  anybody's  got  a 
turn  to  interfere  wi'  my  business,  I  can  deal  with  'em.  If  it's 
a  woman,  she'll  have  the  length  o'  my  tongue,  an'  if  it's  a  man 
he  can  have  the  length  o'  my  arm,  wi'  a  fist  at  the  end  of  it." 

She  shook  her  head  and  sobbed. 

"  When  I  talked  to  ye  last,"  Jim  went  on,  "  you  said  as  you 
couldn't  marry  me — ye  wished  ye  could.  Them  there  words 
o'  yourn  got  hold  o'  me.  I  felt  as  when  I  could  make  out  what 
they  meant,  I'd  make  it  a// out.  When  mother  told  me  what 
was  goin'  on,  tken  I  see  plain  enough,  an'  I  says  to  myself, 
'  Well,  now,  that  was  good  o'  that  gal.  Many  a  one  would  ha' 
took  me  as  a  short  cut  out  o'  the  muddle,  but  sAe  was  above 
//4a/.'  I've  always  liked  ye,  I  always  shall.  I  can't  help  that, 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  try.  As  it's  you  what's  in  this  muddle,  why, 
I  on'y  knows  as  I'd  give  all  I've  got  to  help  you  out,  I  can't 
say  more'n  that  if  I  talks  for  a  hour.  All  what  you've  dane 
don't  make  no  diff  rence  to  the  way  I  thinks  o'  you.  As  I  says, 
'You're  in  trouble,  an'  I'd  give  all  I've  got  to  help  you  out.*" 

It  was  not  particularly  well  put,  nor  did  Jim  look  particularly 
well  as  he  put  it.  His  hair  well  plastered  down  with  oil,  his 
ruddy  flesh-tints  killed  by  a  scarlet  necktie,  his  awkward  air, 
and  his  utter  lack  of  self-possession,  he  would  have  passed  for 
anything  rather  than  a  hero.  Perhaps  he  did  not  comprehend  that 
there  was  anything  heroic  in  the  offer  he  had  come  to  make. 
He  simply  felt  that  he  wanted  to  give  the  girl  he  "  liked  "  the 
shelter  of  his  name  and  his  protection.  He  understood  that 
people  would  call  him  a  fool  for  doing  this  if  they  knew,  and  he 
meant  to  take  care  they  did  not  know,  but  he  was  not  puffed 
up  at  the  thought  of  doing  something  generous.  Annie,  how- 
ever, saw  the  generosity  with  a  clearness  rare  in  her  perception 
of  things.  She  felt  that  Jim  had  come  before  her  in  a 
new  light,  felt  that  he  was  something  much  better,  much 
higher  than  she  had  hitherto  thought  him.  Mrs.  Fryer  had 
opened  her  eyes  with  unnecessary  frankness  as  to  her  future 
relationship  towards  mankind,  had  told  her  that  every  man 
would  regard  her  with  contempt,  open  or  veiled  as  the  nature 
of  the  man  might  prompt,  but  always  with  contempt.  Now 
here  was  Jim,  of  whose  capacity  for  mere  kindness  she  had 
never  thought  very  highly,  offering  to  do  her  a  kindness  which 
was  too  great  to  understand.  She  forgot  her  shame,  she  turned 
and  looked  at  the  awkward  lad  in  astonished  reverence. 

'•  Who'd  ha'  thought  you  cared  for  me  like  that !"  she  said 
softly. 


58  Hnnie  j5)eane 

"Well,  I  do,  so  now  you  knows."  He  stopped  a  minute 
here  and  minutely  examined  the  lining  of  his  hat,  then  said 
steadily,  "There's  one  man  somewhere's  about  as  will  know 
what  we  know.  Say  as  I  marries  you,  I'd  like  to  know 
whether  I'll  be  called  on  to  touch  my  hat  to  that  man  for— 
gentry." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Shall  I  be  like  to  meet  'un  about  ?** 

"  No." 

«  Sure  o' that  ?*» 

"  Certain,  Jim." 

"Do  Iknow'im?" 

"No." 

"  Ever  seen  'im  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  knows  of." 

"  Never  Ukely  to  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  bitterly,  "  nor  me  neither." 

"  I'm  not  throwin'  any  doubt  on  what  you  says,"  said  Jim 
patiently,  "  but  I  hope  you  tell  me  the  truth  o'  that  matter, 
becos'  it's  like  this :  if  ever  I'm  likely  to  run  agen  'im  in  our 
parts  (I  thinks  as  I  know  the  sort  o'  man  'e  is),  why,  I'll  take  ye 
an'  we'll  make  a  'ome  elsewhere.  If  he've  really  cleared  out, 
we  can  stop  where  we  are." 

She  sat  looking  wistfully  at  Jim.  She  felt  inclined  to  go  and 
touch  him,  to  take  his  hand,  or  in  some  way  try  to  show  him 
that  she  was  grateful.  For  she  was  very  grateful  1  It  was  the 
first  genuine  sympathy  she  had  met  with,  the  first  mention  of 
any  faith  in  her  as  being  at  all  possible.  With  all  the  rest  she 
was  a  thing  of  the  past ;  with  Jim  alone  was  she  the  same,  was 
she  still  herself y  in  spite  of  what  had  happened.  Her  mother's 
parting  words,  "  You'll  'ave  to  go  to  service,"  had  plainly  shown 
her  that  between  her  parents  and  herself  was  fixed  an  im- 
passable gulf  of  offence,  which  nothing  in  all  her  future,  be  it 
never  so  blameless,  could  bridge  across.  That  sentence  of  her 
mother's  meant  that  she  must  face  life  on  her  own  account, 
that  henceforth  there  would  be  no  place  for  her  in  the  cottage 
with  the  rest.  So  from  that  moment  all  desire  to  go  back  home 
had  left  her.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  go  back  on  such  a 
different  footing  to  the  old  one.  She  had  been  so  necessary, 
had  always  felt  herself  to  be  a  comfort;  now  she  would 
have  ceased  to  be  necessary,  and  would  be  a  disgrace. 
Mrs.  Fryer  also  had  laboured  earnestly  to  show  her  that  she 
was  one  set  apart  from  good,  one  who,  having  turned  aside 
from  the  straight  path  of  duty,  must  be  content  to  tread  the 


XTbe  /Dan  wbo  was  not  a  (Bentleman      S9 

by-ways  all  her  life.  No  human  creature  serenely  treading 
that  straight  path  would  make  room  for  her  to  walk  abreast  of 
them.  This  had  been  the  burden  of  Mrs.  Fryer's  discourse, 
and  Annie  had  meekly  begun  to  accept  the  prospective  by- 
ways for  her  own,  wondering  a  little  incidentally  what  sort  of 
company  she  would  find  there.  Now,  here  was  Jim,  her  old 
despised  sweetheart,  preaching  a  totally  different  doctrine, 
which  opened  up  to  her  a  prospect  full  of  warmth  and  light. 
She  had  sometimes  felt  that  if  anyone  really  cared  for  her,  they 
would  care  still,  in  spite  of  what  she  had  done ;  and  now  Jim 
was  showing  her  that  she  had  not  been  far  wrong.  But  then, 
Jim  was  ignorant  like  herself.  She  did  not  want  to  take 
advantage  of  him. 

"  You're  only  a  boy,  Jim,"  she  said,  in  a  friendly  way.  "If  I 
was  to  let  you  do  what  you  want  to  do  you'd  be  sorry  for  it 
some  day." 

"  We'll  chance  that,"  said  Jim.  "  I  ain't  afraid.  I  didn't 
come  here  afore  I'd  turned  it  all  over  in  my  own  mind,  and 
settled  everythink  as  I  could  think  on." 

She  got  up,  standing  with  her  back  to  him,  while  the  colour 
surged  into  her  face  and  burned  there. 

"  Ye  see,"  she  said,  "  'tisn't  on'y  me  what's  got  to  be  thought 
of,  there's  somethink  besides,  Jim,  an'  it  ain't  to  be  expected  as 
you  could — could — like  it." 

"  I  knows,"  said  he  hurriedly,  "  an'  I  thought  o'  that,  too ; 
but  sure  I  ain't  such  a  fool  as  to  be  down  on  a  thing  for  what 
it  couldn't  help.  I'm  ready  to  stan'  by  what  I've  said,  for  God 
knows  I  means  it.  If  you  likes  to  stop  'ere  till  they  can  ast  us 
in  church,  well  an'  good.  I'll  get  a  'ome  ready  by  then,  an'  I'll 
come  an'  take  ye  back.  I  reckon  when  I  does  that  as  I  puts 
myself  in  front  o'  you  to  take  what  blame  there  is.  It's  mostly 
the  women's  tongues  as  you've  got  to  fear,  'an  I'll  do  my  best  to 
keep  them  off  ye." 

Annie  said  nothing.  Jim's  goodness  touched  her  inexpres- 
sibly, but  that  mention  of  "  going  back  "  shut  up  her  heart  even 
to  him.     No,  she  did  not  want  to  go  back — there. 

"  I  can  keep  them  off  ye,"  urged  Jim  again.  "  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  care  for  a  few  maggin'  women.  If  it  don't 
matter  to  me,  why  should  it  matter  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  it'd  matter  to  both  of  us,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not 
thinkin'  o'  other  people.  I'm  on'y  thinkin'  o'  our  two  selves,  an' 
tho'  I  can't  tell  why,  Jim,  I  can  see  as  plain  as  plain  that  I  hadn't 
ought  to  mzxry  you.  You're  offering  to  do  more  for  me  than's 
right,  an'  as  soon  as  you'd  got  yer  own  way  you'd  see  what  a 


6o  Hnnie  Beane 

stoopid  you'd  bin,  an*  you'd  wish  me  anywheres  out  o'  your 
way." 

"  I  wouldn't,"  said  Jim,  with  energy ;  "  I  never  would  !  You 
thinks  I'm  jest  a  green'orn  what  don't  know  nothin'.  I  dessay 
I  am,  but  even  a  gree'orn  knows  the  gal  he  likes  from  them  he 
don't  like,  an'  he'll  do  for  her  what  'e  wouldn't  for  them.  If 
any  other  gal  wus  in  your  place,  why,  p'r'aps  I'd  be  the  first  to 
say  as  it  served  her  right ;  but,  jest  becos'  it's  you,  why,  I  can't 
sleep  o'  nights  for  thinkin'  about  ye." 

" I  wonder  you  haven't  give  over  doin'  that*'  she  said 
miserably.     "  Anybody  can  tell  ye  I'm  good  for  nothin'." 

"  Let  'em  try,"  said  Jim. 

"  They  will — everybody  will.  But,  Jim,  I  don't  want  to  be 
bad.  I  never  felt  to  want  to  be  good  like  I  do  now  that 
nobody'll  believe  in  me." 

"  I  believe  in  ye,"  Jim  said  quickly ;  "an'  that's  jest  why  I 
wants  to  take  ye  back.  I'm  sure  they'd  have  to  come  round  in 
time  an'  own  as  I  wus  right." 

"  It  isn't  for  you  to  think  a  lot  o'  me  at  all,"  she  said,  again 
turning  from  that  mention  of  going  back.  "  I  can't  let  you 
take  blame  as  isn't  yourn.  It  would  be  downright  bad  to  let 
everybody  b'lieve  that,  Jim,  and  I  can't  do  it — I  can't 
nohow." 

Jim's  face  hardened.  Annie's  obstinacy  began  to  damp  him, 
to  turn  him  back  to  that  level  beyond  which  so  few  of  us  ever 
manage  to  rise.     He  spoke  a  trifle  bitterly. 

"  I  can't  think  as  it's  the  '  bad '  o'  the  thing  what's  standing 
in  the  way,"  he  said ;  "  the  truth  is,  you  don't  care  nothin'  for 
me.  If  you  did,  you'd  marry  me,  an'  chance  whether  'twas 
right  to  do  it,  or  whether  'twas  wrong." 

She  winced  at  the  truth  of  that  assertion,  as  there  forced 
itself  into  her  mind  a  fatal  comparison.  It  was  so  fatal — to 
Jim.  She  saw  his  worth  more  plainly  than  she  had  ever  seen 
anything  in  her  life,  but  she  saw  it  with  a  kind  of  despair  that 
it  could  not  be  worth  to  her.  She  could  not  like  him  because 
of  the  man  who  had  for  ever  set  up  in  her  mind  the  outward 
and  visible  ideal  of  what  a  man  should  be. 

"  That's  the  truth,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Jim  at  length,  his  bitterness 
increasing. 

"  Not — not — quite,"  she  said ;  "  there's  more  o'  what  I  says 
about  it  than  you  thinks.  You  won't  b'lieve  ine  when  I  says 
that  I  don't  know  how  to  say  No.  If  you  thinks  a  minute  you'll 
see  how  easy  things'd  be  for  me  if  I  said  Yes,  Say  I  gocs  wi' 
you,  I  goes  into  all  sorts  o*  comfort  an'  friends ;  say  I  don't,  I 


XCbe  /IDan  wbo  was  not  a  Gentleman       6i 

tan't  see  nothink  but  hard  work,  an*  that  for  strangers.  But, 
Jim,  I  could  be  honest  wi'  strangers.  If  I  lived  at  'ome  with 
your  folks,  I'd  never  be  happy,  becos'  I'd  be  afraid  o'  my  life 
they'd  Jind  out.  I  had  enough  o'  that  sort  o'  dread  'fore  I  come 
'ere.  An'  Jim,  if  by-and-by  there  should  be  somethink  as — as 
lived  to  grow  up,  an'  I  see  your  mother  a  pettin'  an'  lovm'  of  it 
for  yourn,  I'd  have  to  go  down  on  my  knees  an'  tell  'er  all 
about  It,  or  the  sight  o'  that'd  make  me  feel  a  long  sight  more 
'shamed  o'  myself  than  I  feels  now." 

She  dropped  into  her  chair,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  and 
crying  aloud  as  a  child  cries 

Jim's  eyes  were  dim,  too. 

"You're  lookin'  far  enough  ahead  for  trouble,"  he  said; 
"very  likely  that  wouldn't  happen  at  all.  An',  as  I  says,  if  I 
don't  trouble,  why  should  you  ?  I  can  see  a  comf'table  life  for 
you  an'  me,  if  you'd  let  it  stop  at  that  an'  be  contented," 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"  I  s'pose  you  wouldn't  tell  yer  mother,  Jim  ?  ** 

He  shook  his  head. 

*'  There'd  be  nothink  gained  by  doin'  that.  She'd  think  I 
wus  a  fool,  an'  you  wus  worse.  She'd  never  take  to  ye  as  long 
as  she  lived.  If  I  told  'er  that,  she'd  tell  father,  an'  between 
'em  I'd  have  a  hotter  billet  than  the  forge  on  a  broilin'  day. 
No ;  I'll  know  it,  an'  stick  to  ye  notwithstandin',  but  I  draws  a 
line  at  tellin'  anybody  else." 

"  Becos'  o'  bein'  laughed  at  for  a  fool,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Jim,  "  say  a  man  is  a  fool,  he  don't  know  it  foi 
certain,  ye  see ;  but  he  don't  invite  all  'is  neighbours  to  come 
an'  'elp  him  find  out  whether  he  is  or  not.  He  am't  so  anxious 
to  have  the  question  decided." 

The  girl  rose,  with  a  dignity  which  Jim  noticed  at 
once. 

"  Now,  you  see  I'm  right,"  she  said  ;  "after  a  bit  you'd  see 
that  you  wus  a  fool  yerself^  an'  that'd  be  a  good  deal  worse  than 
the  chaff  o'  yer  neighbours,  Jim." 

"  Neighbours  be  hanged  ! "  he  burst  out  impatiently ;  "  as  I 
said  afore,  I'm  not  tied  to  the  village.  I  can  get  a  livin'  where 
nobody  '11  know,  nor  want  to  know.  Who's  to  trouble  in  a  big 
place  how  long  I've  been  married,  or  where  you  wus — or  who 
— afore  I  married  you  ?  " 

"  There's  a  better  livin'  for  you  at  home,  Jim,  than  you'd 
find  away.  The  people  'ere  wants  more  than  we  do  in  the 
country — I  means,  more  in  the  way  o'  food.  An'  you've  bin 
used  to  live  well — I  knows  how  your  mother  looks  after  you. 


63  Bnnfe  Deane 

To  take  you  away  from  yer  own  folks  'd  be  a'most  as  bad  as  to 
marry  ye,  Jim  ;  and  to  do  both  'd  be  bringin'  ye  to  ruin." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  brushing  his  coat-sleeve  round  and 
round  his  hat. 

"  Then  I'm  to  understand  as  it's  no  good  o'  me  stoppin* 
'ere  ?     So  I'd  better  go  on  about  my  business." 

Annie  started.  That  she  could  offer  him  no  inducement  to 
stay  was  true,  but  she  scarcely  liked  to  send  him  away. 

"  Don't  go  away  angry,  Jim,"  she  faltered. 

"  Angry  !  Where's  the  use  o'  bein'  that,  'less  it's  wi'  myself 
for  bem'  so  hard  to  understand  when  I'm  beat !  I  on'y  come 
to  give  you  a  chance  o'  settin'  yerself  right  agen,  an'  if  you  won't 
take  it,  why,  I  can't  'elp  that,  can  I  ?  I  begin  to  think  there's 
somethin'  behind,  some  hope  o'  that  man  as  you  says  have  quite 
cleared  out." 

"  I  haven't,  Jim  ;  I  haven't  no  hope  at  all." 

"Weil,  will  ye  come  'ome — that  is,  when  we're  married?" 

"  I'd  Uke  to— I'd  like  to." 

"  Very  well,  then,  say  you'll  come." 

"  I  canU  say  it." 

"Mother  shall  come  an'  see  ye  to-morrow,  and  settle  all 
what  wants  to  be  done." 

"No— «^/" 

**  I'll  stick  to  ye  as  long  as  I  lives,  an*  I'll  never  breathe  a 
word  to  a  livin'  soul." 

"  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't,  Jim." 

"  I'll  never  fling  it  up  in  yer  face." 

*'  I  knows  you  wouldn't." 

•^  I  won't  even  ast  ye  to  tell  me  what  ye  haven't  told  me. 
I'll  hold  my  tongue  about  it  to  the  day  o'  my  death,  onless  you 
first  begins  it  o'  yer  own  accord.  I'll  do  whatever  a  man  can 
do  to  make  ye  happy  an'  comftable,  for  I'll  never  take  to 
another  gal  as  I've  took  to  you." 

Annie  shook  her  head. 

"God  bless  you,  Jim  ! "  she  said, in  her  quaint,  old-fashioned 
way. 

"  I  don't  want  no  blessins'  if  I  can't  have  you^* 

"  Ye  musn't  say  that." 

"Say  as  you'll  think  it  over,  an'  let  me  know." 

"  I  shall  think  it  over,  all  as  you  have  said ;  but  there  won't 
be  nothink  to  let  ye  know  about,  Jim." 

"  You're  goin'  to  slop  'ere  ?  " 

She  nodded  evasively. 

"  An'  how  about  when  you  leaves  ?  " 


Zbc  mm  wDo  was  not  a  Gentleman      63 

"  I'm  goin'  to  service." 

**  How  long  have  that  bin  ?  * 

"  Mother  Said  so  last  time  she  come." 

"  Then  you've  left  our  parts  for  good  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  decisive  brevity. 

"  You  don't  know  what  service  is— better  Conie  'dme  agen 
'long  o'  me." 

**  No,  Jim— «<?." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  I've  done.  P'r'aps  Some  day  ydu'U  see  as 
ye  threw  away  what  wus  better  worth  havin'  than  ye  thought 
for." 

Whereupon  Jim  put  on  his  hat  and  stepped  to  the  door. 
Annie  sprang  after  him,  and  caught  his  arm. 

"  I'll  never  see  plainer  what  you're  worth  than  I  do  now," 
she  said ;  "  it  isn't  that,  Jim — it  isn't,  upon  my  word.  Don't 
go  like  that.  I'd  like  to  'ave  a  good  look  at  ye  afore  you  goes 
— you've  behaved  kinder  to  me  than  anybody  I  knows." 

"  That  don't  seem  to  count  for  much,"  he  said,  trying  to 
shake  her  oflF,  in  his  disappointment.  "  I  thought  it  would  if 
I  kep'  right  on  an'  stuck  at  nothin' !  I  ain't  much  to  look  at, 
I  know,  not  so  much,  I  dare  swear,  as  somebody  what  it's  a 
pity  you  ever  see,  an'  a  greater  pity  that  /didn't !  He  wouldn't 
ha'  bin  much  to  look  at  after  I'd  done  with  'un." 

She  was  drawing  him  back  from  the  door  with  kll  her 
might,  her  face  pressed  close  to  his  arm. 

"Say  goodbye  civil,  please,  Jim.  Sure  ye  needn't  think 
you're  so  hard  done  by.  You've  got  all  as  is  good  in  front  o' 
you,  an'  there's  nothink  good  for  me,  ©n'y  hard  work  an'  hard 
words.     Do  say  good-bye  to  me  kind — Jim." 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'*  Good-byCj  then,"  he  said,  with  a  grind  of  his  teeth,  as  the 
girl  took  his  hand  and  held  it  sadly  against  her  wet  face, 
"  God  knows  why  I  should  think  so  much  of  ye — I  don't.  It's 
precious  hard  on  a  chap,  I  says.  P'r'aps  if  I'd  treated  ye  the 
same  as  fu  did  you'd  ha'  liked  me.  That's  mostly  the  way  wi' 
gals." 

"  Don't  be  hard,  Jim.  I'll  have  all  sorts  o'  hard  things  to 
bear  long  after  you've  forgot  all  about  me,  or  have  come  to 
think  me  well  out  o'  yer  way." 

Jim  ground  his  teeth  again  in  impotent  misery,  then  turned 
on  his  heel,  looked  straight  into  the  girl's  eyes,  suddenly  took 
her  close  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her.  Before  she  had 
recovered  her  breath  he  had  swung  through  the  wooden  posts 
at  the  end  of  the  red-bricked  path. 


64  Hnnic  Dcanc 

Annie  went  slowly  back  into  the  house. 

••  There  goes  the  best  friend  I'll  ever  'ave,"  said  she.  *'  Most 
girls  would  ha'  jumped  at  the  thought  o'  goin'  back,  but  I  feels 
as  I've  left  all  that  for  good.  Whatever  else  I  do,  I  shan't  go 
back  there." 

She  stood  a  moment,  still  tingling  with  the  close  pressure  of 
Jim's  arms  and  lips,  then  she  gave  herself  a  shake  and  set  to 
work.  Having  put  some  sticks  ready  for  the  re-kindling  of  the 
fire,  she  filled  the  kettle  and  stood  it  on  the  hob  ;  then  went 
upstairs  for  her  bundle,  tied  it  more  securely,  and  brought  it 
down,  gave  one  last  look  round,  put  the  front  door-key  on  the 
ledge  just  inside  the  unlatched  window,  then  dressed  herself 
and  departed,  taking  the  road  to  the  station.  Here  she  asked 
the  first  porter  she  saw  how  long  she  had  to  wait  for  the 
London  train, 

"  Five  minutes,"  said  he  hurriedly. 

"  Where  will  I  get  my  ticket  ?  " 

He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  ticket-office,  and 
Annie  followed  three  or  four  people  who  were  going  there. 
Standing  close  behind  a  man  she  heard  him  say : 

"Third  class  single  to  Waterloo." 

She  took  his  place  as  he  moved  away. 

"  Third  class  single  to  London,"  said  she  firmly. 

The  clerk  looked  at  her. 

•*  Waterloo  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Is  that  London  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is.  Don't  you  know  which  part  of  London 
you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  get  to  London  by  the  train  what  gets  there 
quickest." 

"Waterloo  train.  There  isn't  another  for  an  hour  and  a 
half." 

Annie  put  down  her  money,  went  back  to  the  platform, 
asked  if  this  were  her  train,  was  pushed  into  a  compartment 
by  a  friendly  porter,  and  in  two  minutes  was  watching  the 
outskirts  of  the  Berkshire  town  gli  Je  past. 

She  had  started  for  London — an  atom  of  helplessness  borne 
along  on  the  current  of  Fate  towards  the  mightiest  city  in  the 
world,  without  a  fear,  without  a  thought  of  consequence, 
rendered  proof  to  such  ordinary  things  by  the  complete  armour 
of  perfect  ignorance. 

Quite  late  that  night  Mrs.  Fryer,  hot  and  distraught  with 
running  hither  and  thither  asking  questions  of  people  likely 


Ube  /©an  wbo  was  not  a  Gentleman       65 

to  be  able  to  satisfy  her,  dropped  on  a  chair  in  her  back  room, 
and  declared  that  she  could  trouble  no  more ;  that  the 
abominable  girl  was  sure  to  be  safe.  A  thing  that  was  no 
good,  said  the  worthy  woman  severely,  never  came  to  much 
harm.  But  throughout  the  night  sleep  deserted  Mrs.  Fryer. 
She  rose  early,  and,  by  a  fortunate  chance,  betook  herself  to 
the  grocer  who  had  changed  Annie's  note  on  the  previous  day. 
She  came  away  from  the  shop  in  a  righteous  fury,  and  reaching 
home,  wrote  to  Mrs.  Drake. 

"  Tell  her  mother  not  to  waste  time  in  troubling  about  her," 
wrote  she,  "  for  depend  upon  it,  that  girl  is  born  to  evil  as  the 
sparks  fly  upward.  The  very  same  night  her  mother  left  here 
did  she  go  to  my  grocer's  and  get  change  for  a  five-pound  note, 
and  every  penny  of  that  money  that  hussy  has  taken  away 
with  her.  This  place  was  not  likely  to  be  good  enough  for 
a  girl  with  five  pounds  in  her  pocket.  What  I  have  said  all 
along  is  right :  there  is  a  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  this,  most 
likely  one  of  the  gentry  round  about  your  way.  She  was  not 
likely  to  tell  her  mother  or  me  his  name.  He  would  make  it 
worth  her  while  to  keep  that  quiet." 

That  five-pound  note  which  had  lain  for  so  long  concealed 
in  the  bosom  of  Annie  Deane's  shabby  gown  turned  even  the 
heart  of  her  mother  against  her. 

"  She  had  all  that  in  her  pocket,  an'  yet  let  me  drag  into 
Readin'  that  day  to  fetch  the  child — she  let  me  cry  over  them 
wax  orniments,  an'  'eard  me  say  as  Ben's  feet  wus  on  the 
ground,  knowin'  'twas  all  becos'  o'  her  I  No,  Dan'l,  Mrs. 
Fryer's  right.  We'd  best  forget  *er,  for  she's  a  bad  gal,  an' 
bad'U  become  of  her  1 " 


CHAPTER   XX 

LONDON 

In  the  dusk  of  the  spring  evening  a  solitary  little  figure  moved 
slowly  along  the  busy  pavement  of  the  Waterloo  Bridge  Road 
— a  figure  at  once  so  childish  and  so  womanly  that  even  here 
many  a  head  turned  to  look  after  it,  and  many  a  heart  gave  it 
a  second  compassionate  thought.  Annie  Deane  was  in  London, 
and  at  present  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  She  repeated  to 
herself  the  names  of  the  few  places  she  had  visited,  and  she 
found  that  such  names  conjured  up  to  her  mental  vision  some- 
thing which  was  real,  which  was  recognisable.  When  she  re- 
peated the  name  of  her  native  village  she  could  see  a  long, 
straggling  street,  the  school-house,  the  church,  the  vicarage,  the 
little  club-house,  where  the  vicar  and  his  curates  met  such 
members  of  their  flock  as  chose  to  avail  themselves  of  secular 
instruction  and  amusement ;  when  she  said  "  Reading,"  she 
could  see  Broad  Street,  the  Market  Place,  Duke  Street,  and  the 
bridge  over  the  narrow  Kennet,  the  Church  of  St.  Lawrence, 
the  great  cannon  on  its  leafy  eminence  in  the  Forbury 
Gardens  ;  but  when  she  said  "  London,"  and  told  herself  that 
she  was  actually  there,  she  felt  like  one  in  a  desert  without  a 
guide.  She  scarcely  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry.  Every- 
thing seemed  just  one  great  roar !  Above — below — around — 
hurry  and  roar,  roar  and  hurry.  Standing  on  the  Bridge,  she 
looked  at  the  sluggish  brown  river  running  far  below ;  at  the 
grimy,  unbeautiful  buildings  on  either  side ;  at  the  black  and 
ugly  river  craft  creeping  along  ;  and  then  the  unfriendliness  of 
it  all  smote  her  sharply,  and  filled  her  eyes  with  tears. 

She  turned  away  from  the  river  to  look  at  the  stream  of 
traffic  crossing  the  bridge,  at  the  'buses  and  cabs,  the  waggons 
and  drays,  the  smart  hansoms  and  dapper  private  carriages. 
She  looked  until  she  unconsciously  stood  still,  open-mouthed, 
in  painful  expectation  of  a  great  collision.  But  the  flying 
vehicles  "  shaved  "  each  other  with  marvellous  certainty,  and 
Annie,  recalled  to  herself  by  the  derisive  grin  of  a  street  arab, 
walked  on.     Once  over  the  Bridge  she  halted,  and,  turning 

66 


Xonbon  67 

aside  from  the  stream  of  people,  walked  to  and  fro  in  front 
of  some  dull-looking  houses — warehouses  or  ofiices,  as  she 
could  see. 

Nearly  opposite  was  a  big  grey  building,  like  a  church  or  a 
hospital,  she  could  not  determine  which.  A  trifle  curious,  she 
thought  she  would  cross  the  road  for  the  purpose  of  finding 
out,  but  the  flying  vehicles  frightened  her.  A  heavy  tread 
behind  made  her  look  round. 

"  Looking  for  anyone  ?  "  said  a  big,  good-tempered-looking 
policeman. 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Want  to  find  any  place  in  particular  ?  " 
"  N— no,"  with  hesitation.     "  Is  this  Wellington  Street  ?  " 
"It  is." 

"  Wellington  Street — London  ?  " 
The  policeman  laughed. 

"  Wellington  Street,  Strand,  is  near  enough  for  most  of  us," 
said  he. 

She  coloured  ruby-red. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  know,  thank  you,"  and  she  walked  on 
briskly  to  join  the  meeting  currents  of  the  busy  human  stream, 
abashed  by  the  amused  policeman's  lenient  treatment  of  her 
transparent  attempt  to  deceive  him.  If  the  Bridge  had  con- 
fused her,  the  clattering  rush  of  the  Strand  bewildered  her. 
She  began  to  feel  a  little  uncertain  in  her  head. 

**  It's  the  noise,"  she  told  herself,  "  an'  the  long  ride  in  the 
train.  I  wish  I'd  had  tea  in  that  baker's  shop  in  the  first  road 
I  came  along.  They  made  tea  there  ;  they'd  got  it  up  in  the 
window.  If  I  was  to  turn  back,  I  wonder  if  I  could  find  that 
shop  agen.  I  knows  I  haven't  crossed  a  road.  I  believes  I 
could." 

She  turned  back  along  the  Strand,  glancing  up  until  she 
saw  Wellington  Street.  Turning  this  corner  with  a  joyful  sense 
of  familiarity,  she  quickened  her  pace. 

The  human  stream  was  flowing  more  sluggishly  for  a  time, 
and  the  strip  of  pavement  in  front  of  the  dull-looking  houses 
was  deserted  by  all  save  one  man — the  same  policeman  who 
had  spoken  to  her  half  an  hour  before  on  that  same  spot. 
She  darted  back  in  terror.  She  felt  that  her  ignorance  of  the 
locality  was  patent  to  that  policeman,  and  she  feared  his  right 
to  question  her  concerning  her  business  and  her  destination. 
At  the  corner  she  turned  and  watched  him  pacing  the  pave- 
ment, with  his  face  to  the  river.  He  would  be  sure  to  recognise 
her  by  the  countrified  bundle  she  carried,  and  of  which  she 


68  Hnnie  H)eane 

was  rapidly  becoming  ashamed.  Arrived  at  the  end  of  the 
strip  of  pavement,  he  stopped,  turned,  looked  (to  Annie's 
excited  fr.ncy)  straight  at  her.  In  frantic  haste  she  bolted  to 
the  corner  of  the  street  again,  and  precipitated  herself  almost 
headlong  into  a  waiting  'bus,  where  she  sat  shaking  with  stupid 
fear.  The  policeman  advanced  until  he  was  but  a  few  feet 
away.  Annie  cowered  in  her  corner,  expecting  to  be  dragged 
out  and  seized  as  a  runaway ;  but  just  as  her  fright  became 
insupportable  the  'bus  started  with  a  great  jerk,  and  in  less  than 
a  moment  the  awful  policeman  was  lost  to  view.  The  girl 
sat  up  and  breathed  again,  but  her  heart  had  scarcely  slowed 
down  before  a  sudden  and  appalling  thought  set  it  off  again  as 
madly  as  ever :  Where  would  this  'bus  take  her  ?  Where 
would  it  stop  and  let  her  get  out  ? 

Fear  of  ridicule  kept  her  silent.  Already  two  or  three  of  her 
fellow-passengers  had  smiled  at  her  bundle,  and  then  at  herself, 
as  at  something  unusual.  She  resented  the  smiles,  and  drew 
her  bundle  under  her  cloak.  Also  she  resented  the  interest 
with  which  she  was  regarded  by  a  man  with  penetrating  eyes 
and  a  much-shaven  face.  She  took  an  intense  dislike  to  the 
man,  which  was  stupid,  he  being  simply  a  member  of  *'/A?" 
profession,  possessed  of  the  genial  kind-heartedness  so  common 
among  his  brethren.  But  for  the  crowded  state  of  the  'bus,  he 
would  have  asked  Annie  a  few  questions;  but  the  'bus  was 
crowded,  and  he  was  the  first  to  leave  it.  Soon  after  that  the 
vehicle  came  to  a  standstill.  Several  people  got  out,  and 
Annie,  thinking  this  a  good  chance  of  hiding  her  ignorance,  got 
out  too,  being  first  stopped  for  payment  of  her  fare.  She  found 
herself  standing  on  the  pavement  again,  further  than  she  had 
yet  been  from  Waterloo  Station,  but  no  nearer  to  any  place  of 
rest  or  refreshment.  There  were  three  or  four  roads  to  choose 
from,  but  whom  could  she  ask  which  road  was  hers,  even  if  she 
had  had  any  idea  herself?  She  had  one,  indeed,  but  that  was 
fast  becoming  confused.  Taking  advantage  of  a  temporary  lull 
in  the  traffic,  she  followed  some  women  across  the  road,  drifted 
aimlessly  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  until  the  women  turned 
and  looked  at  her,  then  drifted  back  again,  finding  herself 
presently  in  the  world-famed  Square,  among  the  fountains  and 
the  big,  grim  lions. 

It  was  almost  quiet  here  in  the  spring  dusk,  nay,  it  was 
lonely,  and  the  vast  site  awed  the  ignorant  wanderer,  chilling 
her  through  and  through.  It  was  all  so  different  to  anything 
she  had  ever  seen.  With  the  loneliness  of  country  roads,  of 
narrow,  hedge-bordered  lanes,  of  still  pine-woods,  of  gently 


Xon&on  69 

swelling  fields  stretching  far  away  to  the  soft  sky-line,  she  was 
familiar ;  but  here  was  a  loneliness  which  was  quite  different, 
and  far  more  dreadful.  She  felt  small,  worthless,  of  no  account 
whatever.  The  great  space  dwarfed  her ;  the  indistinct,  gigantic 
buildings  gave  her  the  imprtssion  of  being  iron-built.  They 
must  have  stood  here,  she  thought,  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  and  would  disappear  with  the  end  of  it.  Certain  it  was 
that  everything  here  was  too  grand  for  her.  "  London  "  was 
meant  to  shelter  creatures  of  another  sphere  than  hers.  The 
very  sky  was  not  the  same.  In  the  country  it  was  deep,  dark 
blue,  and  starry ;  here  it  was  murky,  smoky  red — red  with  the 
reflection  of  a  million  flaring  lights,  lights  which  shut  out  the 
stars.  The  wind,  rain-laden,  blew  across  the  big  space  in  gusts. 
London  was  in  for  a  wet  night ;  and  a  wet  night  at  the  end  of 
April  can  be  cold  as  mid-winter. 

Annie  faced  the  stinging  sleet  with  her  heart  failing  her,  and 
the  nerves  of  her  lips  and  chin  a-twitch  with  the  desire  for 
tears.  She  hurried  across  the  big  square,  then  kept  along  by 
the  houses,  letting  the  squall  sweep  by.  A  sick  sinking — 
something  which  but  for  anxiety  would  have  been  mere 
hunger — possessed  her.  She  was  in  a  street  now,  and  eagerly 
looking  about  for  a  shop  where  she  might  get  something  to 
eat ;  but  the  solitary  confectioner's  she  found  closed  just  as 
she  reached  the  door,  and  she  was  too  timid  to  knock.  She 
drifted  on  again,  turned  one  corner  after  another,  coming  at 
last  to  a  mere  byeway.  Here  she  found  a  baker's  shop,  in 
which  she  bought  a  roll  and  some  plain  cake,  eating  both 
heartily  as  she  went  on  down  the  narrow  pavement.  She  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  hurried  meal  did  her  no  good;  it 
rather  added  to  her  growing  physical  discomfort.  She  began 
to  cry  in  earnest  and  to  quicken  her  pace,  wondering  where 
she  was,  and  whether  she  could  get  back  to  "Waterloo  Bridge 
and  the  policeman.  What  a  long  time  it  seemed  since  she  fled 
from  that  policeman,  and  how  thankfully  would  she  have  made 
her  way  back  to  him  now  !  He  seemed  almost  like  a  friend  ; 
was  certainly  the  only  human  being  to  whom  she  had  spoken 
since  she  had  left  the  station.  She  wondered  if  he  had  a  home, 
and  wife,  and  children  ;  he  somehow  looked  as  if  he  had.  If 
she  were  to  go  back  and  find  him,  telling  him  that  she  had 
enough  money  to  pay,  would  he  have  compassion  on  her,  and 
take  her  and  her  offending  bundle  in  ?  She  thought  he 
would,  and  set  off  bravely  to  find  her  way  back  to  the  Bridge. 

As  far  as  she  could  remember,  she  had  come  in  a 
"  straightish "   line  from  Wellington   Street,    so   now,  having 


79  Btmie  S)eane 

suddenly  turned  down  this  little  street,  she  must  be  going  in  a 
"  straightish  "  line  back.  Surely  she  had  but  to  keep  on,  and 
presently  turn  to  the  right.  This  would  bring  her  to  the  busy 
Strand  again,  where  she  would  get  into  a  'bus,  if  only  there  we  re 
one  waiting.  But  just  now  she  could  find  no  turning  to  the 
right,  and  the  rain  was  driving  down  the  street  in  earnest.  The 
blurred  street-lamps  flickered  in  the  whirling  gusts,  while  the 
wet  pavements  reflected  them  in  misty  patches.  Annie  began 
to  comprehend  that  her  situation  was  serious.  A  few  people, 
with  lowered  umbrellas  firmly  held,  passed  her,  intent  on 
reaching  shelter  ;  three  or  four  boys,  in  ragged  garments,  bare- 
headed, barefooted,  and  supremely  happy,  came  out  of  a  narrow 
court,  and  turned  "  wheels  "  on  the  wet  pavement  just  in  front 
of  her.  Nearly  falling  over  the  hindmost  of  these,  Annie 
stopped  him. 

*'  How  far  am  I  from  the  Bridge  ?  "  she  said  timidly. 

*'  Eh,  miss  ? "  said  the  shock-headed  urchin,  peering  up  at 
her  with  cunning  eyes,  and  touching  his  forelock  in  mock 
respect     "  The  Bridge,  did  you  say,  miss  ?    What  Bridge  ?  " 

"  Waterioo  Bridge." 

"Oh,  my  eye!" 

The  urchin  thrust  his  hands  in  two  ragged  pocket-holes,  and 
danced  a  neat  little  pas-seul  to  the  accompaniment  of  his  own 
whistle. 

"  Hi,  Bill  I  come  back  here  and  tell  us  the  way  to  Waterloo 
Bridge.  We're  from  the  country,  we  are,  and  we  wants  to  find 
Waterloo  Bridge.  Goin'  to  commit  sooicide,  miss  ?  Allow 
me  the  pleashaw  of  holdin'  your  bundle." 

"  Let  it  alone  !  "  cried  Annie,  desperately  frightened,  for  the 
grimy,  grinning  imps  who  were  dancing  round  her  looked  like 
little  devils  incarnate.     "  How  dare  ye  ?    Let  it  alone  ! " 

Saying  which  she  fought  for  the  poor  bundle,  and  tried  to 
break  away,  but  the  step-dancer  slipped  one  unsavoury  arm 
through  hers,  while  he  flourished  the  other  on  high. 

"  Come  along,  pals,"  cried  he ;  "  come  along  of  us  to  see  the 
young  lady  from  the  country  take  a  header  from  Waterloo 
Bridge,  like  the  gal  in  the  play  at  the  *  Vic.',  while  I  holds  her 
property  and  engages  the  attention  of  the  peeler,  so  as  he  don't 
rush  on  in  the  nick  o'  time,  like  the  gal's  sweetheart  at  the 
tbeayter.  I  say,  miss,  any  mystery  about  this  bundle  ?  Let's 
feel,  now,  do." 

"  Get  away,  you  Uttle  beast ! "  cried  the  giri,  frantic  with 
(right  and  temper.     "  I'll  call  '  Police,'  if  you  don't  get  away." 

♦♦Gently,  my  dear,"  said  her  persecutor,  with  a  diabolical 


Xon^on  71 

squinting  grimace  at  his  "pals."  "I'm  escortin'  of  you  to 
where  you  wants  to  go.  Come  along,  now,  nice  and  friendly.  Take 
my  arm.  I'm  sorry  I've  not  got  my  best  togs  on,  and  I  can't 
hoffer  you  my  umbereller,  becos'  I  left  it  up  the  spout  at  my 
uncle's,  I  say,  it's  dooced  wet,  ain't  it?  Hadn't  you  better 
allow  me  to  call  a  cab,  'cos  at  this  'ere  rate  we  might  be 
drownded  afore  we  gets  to  the  Bridge,  which  would  make  the 
sooicide  sort  of  onnecessary,  and  spoil  the  excitement.  Have 
you  wrote  the  letter  to  yer  sweetheart  ?  Oh,  my  eye,  pals,  can't 
she  kick ! " 

"  Help !  "  shrieked  Annie  hysterically.  "  Help  !  Police ! 
Oh,  where  is  somebody  to  take  these  dreadful  boys  away  ?  " 

The  dreadful  boys  sent  up  shriek  upon  shriek  of  laughter, 
while  they  all  joined  hands  and  executed  a  wild  dance  round 
their  panting,  terrified  victim,  dodging  her,  and  closing  up 
together  like  lightning  whenever  she  tried  to  break  through. 
The  rain  was  falling  heavily,  and  the  narrow  street  was  deserted 
by  all  save  one  or  two  people,  who  hurried  past,  making  no 
attempt  to  interfere ;  seeing  which  the  urchins  waxed  merrier 
and  more  audacious,  forcing  the  girl  against  the  wall  at  last, 
where  they  kept  guard  over  her  for  several  minutes,  enjoying 
her  torture  like  the  young  fiends  they  were.  The  situation  was 
dreadful.     At  last  a  bright  thought  illumined  Annie's  despair. 

"If  you'll  let  me  go,"  she  said  faintly,  "I'll  give  ye 
sixpence." 

The  shrieking  war-dance  stopped  instantly. 

"No  tricks,  now,"  said  the  arch  fiend  of  the  gang;  "stump 
up  the  tanner  and  we'll  say  'Walker!'" 

Scarcely  able  to  stand  for  trembling,  Annie  held  her  wet 
bundle  firmly  under  her  arm,  while  she  felt  in  her  glove  for  the 
change  given  her  in  the  baker's  shop. 

"  l5on't  hurry,"  said  the  arch-fiend,  who  was  unpleasantly 
close  at  hand.  "  We'll  take  it  in  silver,  or  we'll  take  it  in 
'  browns ' ;  we're  not  partik'ler,  but  it  must  be  cash  down,  an' 
no  credit." 

Brilliantly  inspired  for  the  second  time,  Annie  raised  her 
hand  and  threw  some  coppers  into  the  middle  of  the  road 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  there  was  a  writhing,  struggling 
heap  of  dirty  humanity  on  the  spot  where  those  coppers  fell, 
and  Annie  made  her  escape,  stumbling  and  running  as  best 
she  eould  until  she  had  safely  turned  into  something  like  a 
thoroughfare.  By  this  time  the  sharp  shower  had  ceased. 
Knowing  that  she  could  not  have  got  far  from  that  terrible 
gang,  the  girl  pushed  on  as  long  as  she  could,  but  at  last  came 


7*  Bnnfc  Dcanc 

to  a  compulsory  stop.  The  hurry  and  rush  of  the  past  few 
hours,  the  terror  of  the  past  few  minutes,  the  desolation  and 
uncertainty  of  a  homeless  and  shelterless  night  ahead — all 
these  things  were  working  her  up  to  a  state  of  panic.  She 
had  no  wish  to  hide  in  dark  places  now,  the  more  light  and 
companionship  the  better ;  so  she  stood  full  in  the  glare  of  a 
big  public-house,  leaning  against  the  ornamental  brickwork  of 
its  imposing  entrance. 

It  took  her  some  minutes  to  regain  her  wits  and  her  breath, 
then  she  began  to  understand  that  she  was  in  a  busy  thorough- 
fare, and  to  wonder  if  it  were  the  Strand  again.  She  watched 
the  cabs  and  'buses  go  by,  watched  the  ever-meeting,  never- 
mingling  streams  of  people,  until  a  very  heart-breaking  thought 
turned  everything  into  a  dancing  mist :  out  of  all  that  human 
crowd  she  could  find  no  single  being  to  whom  she  dared  go  for 
help.  True,  she  had  money,  but  that  was  all  she  had  to 
help  her  through  a  time  the  thought  of  which  paralysed  her  with 
fear.  She  clutched  her  bundle  more  tightly  as  she  remembered 
that  she  had  a  little  change  therein.  Her  gold  was  sewn  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.     That  must  not  go. 

"  God  help  me ! "  she  burst  out,  half  aloud,  "  what  shall  I  do  ? 
If  only  I  could  get  to  the  station,  p'r'aps  I'd  be  able  to  get  back 
to  Readin' ;  an'  oh,  wouldn't  I  be  glad  to  get  back  ! " 

She  shut  her  eyes  in  pain,  and  saw  the  narrow  Reading 
Street,  the  little  garden-fronted  terrace,  the  red-bricked  path  to 
Mrs.  Fryer's  front  door.  Annie  thought  of  it  as  Eve  thought  of 
her  lost  Paradise.  Suddenly  giving  way,  she  leaned  against  the 
door  of  the  public-house,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  stay  there 
until  someone  ordered  her  away. 

Let  come  what  come  may,  she  had  no  will  left  wherewith  to 
combat  Fate  further ;  she  abandoned  herself  to  sheer  fatigue 
and  misery. 

But  in  another  moment  there  smote  upon  her  ear  a  cry,  a 
word  which  sent  the  blood  bounding  through  her  veins  afresh, 
and  quickened  every  numbing  sense  she  had.  That  word  was 
Regent.  She  grasped  her  bundle  and  started  forward.  The 
cry  came  from  one  of  the  'buses  which  stood  just  across  the  road. 

Regent — Regent — what?  A  word  too  long  for  street;  a 
word  apparently  ending  with  "  s."  Too  intent  upon  reaching 
that  'bus  to  heed  even  the  meeting  traffic,  Annie  dashed  across 
the  road  right  under  the  nose  of  a  cab-horse,  oblivious  of  the 
shouted  oath  of  the  driver,  and  only  perceiving  her  danger  when 
she  felt  herself  grasped  by  the  conductor  of  the  'bus  she  was 
struggling  to  enter  at  all  risks. 


Xonbon  73 

"  There,  now,"  said  he  grimly,  "  can't  you  see  where  you're 
goin'  to,  young  woman  ?  It's  your  sort  as  hauls  a  man  up  for 
runnin'  over  somebody.  If  you'd  ha'  bin  killed,  it  wouldn't 
have  bin  that  cabby's  fault." 

He  pushed  the  girl  into  the  'bus,  and  gave  the  signal  to 
drive  on. 

Annie  made  no  inquiry  as  to  where  she  was  going.  She 
sat  back  in  her  seat,  holding  on  to  the  edge  of  it.  There 
were  but  four  travellers  besides  the  girl,  and  neither  of  them 
spoke  to  her.  They  looked  at  her  curiously,  even  sym- 
pathetically ;  but  she  was  too  far  gone  to  notice,  or  to  care  if 
she  did  notice.  And  by  the  time  the  leaden  weight  above  her 
eyes  had  lifted  sufficiently  to  allow  her  to  look  about  her,  she 
had  the  'bus  to  herself.  The  conductor  swung  himself  partly 
inside. 

•'  Circus?"  said  he,  with  something  of  interrogation  in  his  tone. 

"What  circus?"  said  Annie,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of 
Messrs.  Sanger  on  a  visit  to  Reading. 

"  Regent  Circus." 

The  girl  got  up. 

"  Where's  Regent  Street  ?  "  said  she  eagerly. 

The  conductor  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"  What  part  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  for  certain." 

"  Well,  what  number  ?  " 

She  told  him.     He  repeated  it  thoughtfull;. . 

"  I  think  you'll  find  that  about  half-way  down,  on  the  left- 
hand  side.  What  ?  No,  I  don't  know  the  name,  but  you'll 
find  it  if  you've  got  the  number." 

"  Will  they  be  shut  ?  "  she  asked  breathlessly,  as  she  stepped 
out  to  the  pavement,  wondering  why  she  trembled  so. 

'•  Shut?  Yes  ;  most  likely."  And  the  conductor,  swinging 
round  by  his  strap,  put  one  hand  to  the  side  of  his  mouth  like 
an  open  shutter,  and  commenced  to  shout  for  customers. 

Annie  went  slowly  along  the  broad  pavement,  trying  to 
account  for  her  agitation. 

Was  she  not  in  Regent  Street?  Was  she  not  upon  his 
track  ?  He  had  said  he  was  going  away,  but  just  lately  she 
had  begun  to  doubt  the  truth  of  that  statement.  All  his  con- 
duct was  accounted  for  to  her  by  a  new  theory  of  ignorance. 
It  was  this  which  had  decided  her  to  find  him.  His  youth, 
his  pleasant  laugh,  his  gentle  speech  and  manner  were  all  so 
hard  to  associate  with  brutal  intention. 

"  He  didn't  know,"  she  kept  on  telling  herself.    "  If  he  was  to 


74  annfc  Bcane 

know,  he'd  tell  me  what  to  do ;  he'd  find  me  some  place  to  go 
till  I  was  all  right  agen.  I'm  sure  he  would — he  wus  so  kind. 
Why,  he  wus  afraid  o'  me  scratchin'  my  feet  wi'  the  brambles, 
an'  how  angry  he  wus  wi'  Tommy  that  day  for  kickin'  me  ! " 

Annie's  way  of  looking  at  things  was  a  feminine  way.  The 
man  had  done  her  one  great  wrong,  but  in  little  things  he  had 
been  kind  and  considerate ;  and  with  the  average  woman  it  is 
the  "  eternal  little  thing  "  which  counts. 

She  stepped  out,  looking  up  at  the  big  numbers  as  she 
neared  the  one  she  wanted. 

Up  to  the  present  the  possibility  of  finding  one  shop  in  this 
maddening  confusion  called  "London"  had  been  so  remote 
that  her  plan  of  action,  should  she  succeed  in  finding  it,  had 
not  been  decided  upon.  It  now  became  necessary  to  think 
what  she  should  do. 

Still  looking  upward,  she  stumbled  on  a  few  yards  and 
stopped.    The  shop  was  closed  1 


CHAPTER  X 

"l.  a.  le  quesne" 

For  an  instant  it  seemed  to  Annie  as  if  sky  and  street  had 
come  together  in  one  great  clap  of  disappointment  and  despair. 
When  things  had  steadied,  she  looked  at  the  house  again  and 
saw  lights  in  the  upper  windows,  also  a  side  door  slightly 
open.  She  pushed  it  more  so,  finding  another,  half-glass,  and 
hung  upon  the  swinging  principle.  Through  this  she  could  see 
a  dimly-lit  passage  and  staircase.  In  another  instant  she  was 
in  the  passage,  peering  into  a  big  glass  case  containing  photo- 
graphs, the  name  upon  which  was  identical  with  the  name  on 
the  photograph  left  for  her  under  the  pine  tree  months  before. 
A  thrill  of  hope  revived  her  from  head  to  foot.  Now  "  London  " 
meant  more  than  a  vast  confusion.  Here,  where  she  stood,  he 
had  stood;  here,  somewhere  near  at  hand,  was  Ju.  All  her  misery 
must  vanish  if  she  could  but  lay  her  hand  upon  him.  He 
would  forgive  her  everything  when  he  knew. 

She  walked  up  the  passage,  and  stood  on  the  bottom  staitj 
looking  up.  On  the  sombre-tinted  wall  was  a  painted  hand,  the 
forefinger  extended,  and  "  Studio — second  floor,"  in  big  black 
letters.  Annie  mounted  the  stair  and  went  on  until  she  came 
to  another  door.  Without  giving  herself  time  to  think  she 
opened  it,  and  found  herself  in  a  large  room,  furnished  with 
velvet  chairs  and  a  lounge  or  two. 

"  Is  that  you,  Willis  ?  "  came  in  a  man's  voice  from  behind 
a  Japanese  screen. 

Annie  did  not  say  anything,  only  began  to  undo  her  bundle, 
wherein  was  the  photograph. 

"  Willis  ! "  called  the  voice  again  irritably,  "  is  it  you  ?  " 

"No,"  here  interposed  another  voice,  this  time  feminine^ 
also  from  behind  the  screen  ;  "  it  can't  be,  for  I  sent  him  home 
half  an  hour  ago." 

A  gentleman  stepped  out  from  the  Japanese  obstruction, 
and,  seeing  Annie,  said,  not  very  civilly : 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,"  faltered  she,  "  if  you  please,  sir,  I — I  had 
to— to — give — I  means,  to  show  you  this^  an'  to  ast  where  to 
find  him." 

75 


7«  Hnnic  2)eanc 

Whereupon  she  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  trembled 
guiltily  all  over. 

The  gentleman  took  the  portrait,  lifted  his  brows  in  surprise, 
and  surveyed  Annie  critically  from  head  to  foot 

"Who  sent  you  here?  "  he  said. 

"  A  friend  of  his,"  said  she,  more  falteringly  than  before. 

The  gentleman  continued  his  critical  survey,  then  shook 
his  head. 

"  To  whom  does  this  belong  ?  " 

"That  picture,  sir?    Oh  !  that's  mine." 

"  Who  gave  it  you  ?  " 

"Hedid— hisself." 

"  Who  did  ?  " 

She  stepped  forward  and  laid  her  finger  on  the  portrait 

"  He  did,"  with  an  emphatic  little  nod,  as  of  one  who  would 
say,  "  Are  you  stupid  ?  " 

"What — Mr. — Mr." — and  here  he  paused,  waiting  for  her 
to  fill  in  the  name. 

**  Yes,"  said  she  promptly,  "  he  did,  hissel£" 

"And  yet — you  don't  know  his  name?" 

She  started  and  looked  distressed. 

"Who  says  I  don't?" 

"  You  don't — I  am  sure  of  it     It  is  quite  plain  to  me." 

She  hung  her  head  and  said  nothing.  Her  interrogator 
continued : 

"And  yet  you  tell  me  he  gave  you  this?  Really,  you 
cannot  expect  me  to  believe  it" 

"  But  it's  true  1 "  she  cried  miserably ;  "  it's  quite  true.  He 
promised  it  to  me,  an'  when  he  went  away  he  sent  it." 

"  Oh,  now  he  sent  it !  And  yet— did  not  send  his  name 
with  it" 

Remembering  to  what  duplicity  had  brought  her,  Annie 
held  up  her  head  and  spoke  out : 

"  I  don't  know  his  name ;  it's  true,  I  don't — but  I  knows  him 
very  well." 

The  photographer  shook  his  head  with  decision,  and  handed 
back  the  card. 

"  I  can  do  nothing  for  you ;  it  is  of  no  use  coming  to 
me." 

Annie  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table  near  her. 

" I  wants  his  name  an'  address,"  she  said,  "that's  all.  You 
can  tell  me  that,  becos'  you  knows  it" 

"  I  know  it  certainly ;  but  I  am  not  supposed  to  give  it  to 
;tnyone  who  chooses  to  come  and  ask  for  it     It  would  not 


be  in  accordance  with  our  custom.  We  are  not  at  liberty  to 
disclose  people's  names  and  addresses." 

She  looked  bewildered. 

The  photographer  put  one  foot  upon  a  chair,  eyeing  her 
more  graciously.  It  was  his  business  in  life  to  find  beauty  in 
the  human  face,  and  a  certain  share  of  beauty  this  girl  had. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  it  is 
like  this  : — Our  customers  are  at  our  mercy,  and  we  are  obliged 
to  be  careful.  Of  course,  when  we  take  portraits  of  public 
people,  such  portraits  are  public  property,  and  are  even  sold, 
but  that  is  by  permission.  Now,  in  this  case  you  bring  me  the 
portrait  of  a  private  gentleman;"  he  paused  for  three  or  four 
seconds,  and  watched  her,  then  resumed,  "  and  you  ask  me  for 
his  address.  I  cannot  say  what  use  you  might  make  of  it,  you 
see.  Besides,  it  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence  between  him 
and  me.  He  would  have  a  right  to  think  me  impertinent,  and 
he  might  be  excessively  annoyed." 

"  He  wouldn't,"  she  burst  out  eagerly,  "  he  wouldn't  be 
annoyed  at  all." 

"  I  cannot  risk  it.  I  am  not  refusing  you  for  mere  unkind- 
ness.  I  am  only  following  rules  which  are  respected  among 
us,  and  which  we  do  not  care  to  break.  As  I  have  said,  it  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  say  what  use  you  might  make  of  this 
information  you  want." 

"  I  won't  make  use  of  nothink,"  she  pleaded,  "  how  could  I  ? 
What  'arm  could  /  do  ?  Even  if  I  wus  to  try,  an'  goodness 
knows  as  I  wouldn't  try ! " 

"  I  cannot  say  whether  or  not  it  is  in  your  power.  I  know 
nothing  of  you.  About  giving  you  this  address,  it  might  be 
right  enough,  but  it  is  a  thing  I  cannot  do." 

Annie  stared  at  him  with  eyes  brimful  of  despair.  His 
reasons  were  no  reasons  to  her.  She  could  not  understand 
them.     She  could  only  say  stupidly : 

"  What  'arm  could  I  do  ?  If  you  told  me  where  to  find  him, 
I  shouldn't  tell  nobody  else.  As  to  'im  bein'  angry,  he'd  be 
glad — when  he  knew.  Why  won't  you  tell  me?  What  shall 
I  do  if  you  don't  tell  me?  I've  not  got  no  other  way  of 
findin'  out." 

She  wrung  her  hands  together,  and  spoke  out  shrilly  in  her 
great  distress. 

The  photographer  was  beginning  to  be  sorry  for  her,  and 
to  wish  her  gone.  He  perceived  that  she  was  not  educated  up 
to  the  point  of  courteously-implied  dismissal.  It  would  be 
necessary  to  give  her  an  emphatic  "  No,"  and  he  shrank  from 


T«  Bnnie  2)eanc 

giving  it — himself.  He  went  into  a  tiny  inner  room,  where 
his  wife,  with  bonnet  and  cloak  on,  stood  waiting. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  said  she.  "  What  a  time  of  night  to  trouble 
one  on  business  !    We  shall  miss  the  8.30  train." 

Her  husband  threw  the  portrait  he  held  on  the  table. 

*•  Look  here,"  he  said,  *'  it's  the  very  queerest  thing  f  A 
girl  begging  kis  address." 

The  lady  gave  a  cry  of  surprise. 

"  Imagine  it !     A  common  girl,  of  course?  " 

"  Oh !  if  you  like  to  put  it  in  that  way,  a  common  girl, 
certainly.  A  country  girl,  fresh  from  her  native  wilds,  and  in 
downright  distress.     She's — " 

Here  the  speaker  paused,  filling  in  the  sentence  with  a 
significant  look  at  his  wife,  who  responded  with  one  of  startled 
comprehension. 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  her." 

"  I  will ;  but  of  course  you  cannot  give  her  the  address." 

"  That  is  of  course.     She  doesn't  know  his  name,  either.** 

"  How  ridiculous  !     The  girl  must  be  crazy." 

Annie  was  standing  in  the  studio  anxiously  watching  that 
black-and-gold  screen.  When  a  lady  appeared  to  her  instead 
of  a  gentlemen,  she  was  in  nowise  elated.  The  lady  looked 
sharper  than  her  husband,  and  spoke  more  decidedly  than 
he. 

"We  are  waiting  to  leave,"  said  she;  "1  am  sorry  we 
cannot  give  you  this  gentleman's  address.  My  husband  has 
doubtless  told  you  why.  It  would  be  interfering  with  his 
private  affairs  in  a  way  that  nothing  could  excuse." 

"  I  can't  see  that,"  persisted  Annie.  "  If  he'd  mind  me 
knowin'  it'd  be  diff'rent.  But  I  know  for  certain  he  wouldn't 
mind,  an'  why  can't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see  it  is  so  plain  to  us  that  if  he  had  wished  you 
to  know  his  name  and  address  he  would  have  given  you  both 
himself." 

"  But  he  didn't  know  I'd  want,"  and  here  the  girl  stopped, 
suddenly  remembering  that  these  people  knew  him,  and  that 
by  talking  to  them  she  was  betraying  liim.  She  had  no  wish 
to  betray  him ;  she  loved  him  far  too  jealously  for  that.  "  He 
had  to  go  away  in  a  hurry,"  she  finished  up,  rather  lamely. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  We  only  know  that  we 
should  not  be  justified  in  giving  you  what  he  evidently  does 
not  wish  you  to  have." 

Saying  which,  she  put  Annie's  portrait  in  a  clean  envelope, 
and  handed  it  back  to  her. 


"  X.  a.  %c  (Sluesne  **  79 

"  Besides,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  think  you  are  making  some 
ridiculous,  or  perhaps  wilful,  mistake.  Remember,  I  know 
this  gentleman.  He  is  a  gentleman,  and — in  my  opinion — 
would  be  very  unlikely  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  girl  like 
you." 

Annie  had  pluck  enough  left  to  resent  that  speech.  She 
said,  "  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  put  her  photograph  back  in  her 
bundle,  and  prepared  to  leave. 

"  I  hope  you  have  friends  here  ?  "  said  the  lady  then. 

The  girl  made  no  answer. 

"  Have  you  come  far  ?  " 

"A  good  way." 

"  Then  you  have  friends  here  ?  " 

The  girl  halted. 

"  I  s'pose  you  won't  tell  me  where  to  find  'im  ? "  she  said 
quietly,  after  a  pause,  during  which  she  had  lifted  her  bundle 
and  turned  to  the  door. 

"  I  cannot ;  it  would  not  be  right,  and  we  should  be  laying 
ourselves  open  to  blame." 

Annie  nodded,  opened  the  door,  went  slowly  down  the 
stairs,  and  out  into  the  street.  Her  one  hope,  her  one 
resource,  had  failed  her. 

The  photographer's  wife  went  back  to  the  inner  room. 

"Wasn't  that  odd?"  said  she.  "I  don't  remember  any 
such  thing  ever  happening  before.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  Never.     Do  you  believe  the  girl's  story  ?  " 

•'  JVb.  Who  could  ?  Of  course,  she  is  in  distress,  but  I  feel 
sure  he  is  not  the  man  she  wants.  She  has  picked  up  that 
portrait  somewhere,  and  somebody  behind  her  has  put  her  up 
to  an  impudent  scheme  for  extorting  money." 

"  Perhaps.  Why  should  you  think  that  it  is  not  he  whom 
she  wants  ?  " 

"  Because  I  believe  he  is  not  that  sort  of  man." 

"  What  on  earth  can  you  know  of  the  man  ?  I  think  you 
have  seen  him  about  half-a-dozen  times." 

"  That  is  true,  but  then  he  is  so  friendly  !  You  kept  him 
waiting  more  than  an  hour  on  two  occasions." 

"  Which  means  that  he  failed  to  keep  the  time  of  his 
appointment.     No  virtue—  that ! " 

"Well,  he  apologised,  and  did  not  mind  waiting.  I  have 
known  people  come  late  to  their  appointments,  and  then  seem 
quite  insulted  because  they  had  to  wait.  I  feel  sure  that  he 
is  innocent  as  regards  this  girl." 

"  You  judge  by  her  general  ignorance  of  him.    I  suppose 


So  Bnnte  S)eane 

you  are  right.  We  have  published  a  good  many  of  those 
photographs,  have  we  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  are  still  printing  them.  It  was  the  best  negative 
you  got  of  him.     By  the  way — " 

She  broke  off,  went  over  to  a  cupboard,  took  out  a  file,  and 
lifting  a  few  letters,  found  one  she  wanted  and  drew  it  off.  It 
was  from  Milan,  and  bore  a  recent  date. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Weston, — Will  you  kindly  send  me  a  dozen 
copies  of  that  last  photograph  of  mine?  Of  course,  I  could 
easily  have  some  done  here,  but  you  know  I  am  a  lazy  beggar, 
and  the  trouble  of  sitting  is  immense.  Besides,  when  a  thing 
is  a  success,  why  not  stick  to  it  ?  I'm  in  no  hurry,  if  you  have 
no  copies  on  hand. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  L.  A.  Le  Quesne.* 

Mrs.  Weston  re-filed  the  letter. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  of  him,"  she  said ;  "  but  his  photos  are 
ready  to  send,  and  if  you  have  no  objection  I  will  tell  him 
about  the  girl." 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  not,  but — do  as  you  like." 

"  Will  you  write  instead  of  me  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"  No,  You  are  business  manager,  and  the  correspondence 
is  your  afifair." 

"Well,  then,  I  shall  tell  him,  to  give  him  the  chance  of 
clearing  himself  of  a  very  ugly  suspicion.     He  will  do  it" 

"  Will  he  ?     Where  are  his  photographs  ?  " 

She  threw  one  across  the  table.  Her  husband  held  it  away 
from  him  and  screwed  up  his  eyes. 

"  I  remember  him  very  well.  Do  you  know  that  he  is  what 
you  women  call  a  'fascinating'  beggar?  Not  one  of  your 
atrocities  who  try  to  be  fascinating,  but  who  is  so  because 
he  is  so,  and  can't  help  it."  He  threw  the  portrait  back. 
"There's  one  thing,"  he  said,  rather  sneeringly,  "if  he  were 
ever  meant  to  be  any  good,  he  has  circumvented  the  Provi- 
dential  intention  by  his  choice  of  a  profession.  In  a  year 
or  two  hundreds  of  silly  women  will  have  flattered  him  into  a 
conceited  fool," 

Mrs.  Weston  burst  out  laughing. 

"  How  bitter  you  are  !  and  only  listen  to  the  rain  !  We  have 
lost  that  train,  so  can  make  ourselves  comfortable  for  half  an 
hour.     I  will  write  that  letter  while  I  wait." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  handed  the  written  letter  to  her 
husband. 


"%,  a,  %c  (Slucsne"  81 

"Regent  Street,  April 30,  i8 — . 

"Dear  Mr.  Le  Quesne, — Herewith  your  photographs. 
Shall  be  glad  to  hear  of  their  safe  arrival.  Had  you  not  better 
defer  payment  until  you  return  ? 

"  Such  a  curious  little  thing  happened  to-night  in  connection 
with  these  photographs  that  I  feel  I  must  tell  you  about  it. 
Just  as  we  were  leaving,  a  girl — quite  young  and  very  pretty — 
found  her  way  into  the  studio.  She  produced  one  of  the  photos, 
and  earnestly  begged  your  address.  My  husband  questioned 
her  a  bit,  feeling  sure  that  she  had  mistaken  you  for  someone 
else.  He  could  make  nothing  of  her,  except  that  you  had  given 
her  the  portrait,  ^^'e  thought  this  most  unlikely,  seeing  that 
she  did  not  even  know  your  name.  I  need  scarcely  say  that 
we  told  her  nothing.  Trusting  you  will  receive  photos  in  good 
condition, 

**  I  am,  sincerely  yours, 

«  E.  M.  Weston." 

Copy  of  letter  received  by  Mrs.  Weston  some  days  later : — 

"  Milan,  May  5,  18—. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Weston, — So  many  thanks  for  prompt  atten- 
tion to  order.     Photos  arrived  quite  safely.     Thanks  for  sug- 
gestion concerning  payment ;  I  may  not  be  in  England  for  six 
months,  possibly  longer. 

"  By  the  way,  what  a  rum  thing  about  that  girl !  Who  the 
dickens  was  she  ? 

"  Of  course,  it  was  very  good  of  you  to  ketp  faith  with  me, 
but  should  she  come  again,  or  you  be  in  possession  of  any 
information  as  to  her  whereabouts,  will  you  give  her  my  name 
and  address  ?  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  what  came 
of  it — With  kind  regards,  I  am, 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  L.  A.  Le  Quesne." 

Mrs.  Weston  passed  the  letter  to  her  husband. 

"  He  treats  the  matter  as  an  innocent  man  would,"  said  she. 
"  *  Certainly,'  he  says,  *  give  her  the  name  and  address.  /  have 
no  fear.  I  should  be  amused  to  see  what  came  of  it.'  Now, 
to  me  that  looks  like  innocence." 

"Very  well.  But  if  ever  that  girl  comes  here  again,  I  shall 
avail  myself  of  Mr.  Le  Quesne's  permission  ;  I  shall  put  her  in 
possession  of  his  name  and  address,  although  I  should  not 
expect  to  share  in  the  amusement  of  seeing  *  what  came  of  it.' " 

But  the  girl  went  to  Regent  Street  no  more. 

r 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CURATE  OF   ST.   SAVIOUR'S 

In  a  barely-furnished  room  of  a  house  in  another  part  of 
London,  a  man  sat  quite  alone ;  sat  with  drooped  head  and  rest- 
lessly moving  hands,  like  one  whose  thoughts  are  far  away.  The 
strong  and  cheerful  light  of  fire  and  gas  would  have  suggested 
occupation  to  most  people,  but  this  solitary  man  was  idle. 
Judging  by  the  pallor  of  his  face,  such  idleness  was  necessary ; 
judging  by  the  oddly  restless  hands,  it  was  distasteful,  and 
would  be  transient.  And,  indeed,  idleness  was  altogether  out 
of  keeping  with  the  air  which  pervaded  that  room ;  out  of 
keeping  with  the  mass  of  papers  on  the  writing-table,  with  the 
business-like  books  on  the  undecorated  book-shelves,  with  the 
straight-backed,  un  restful  wooden  chairs.  The  very  mantel- 
piece was  devoid  of  ornament,  for  the  clock  thereon  was  square 
and  squat,  disclaiming  all  merit  but  the  indispensable  one  of 
accuracy.  The  one  ornament  of  the  room  hung  above  the 
clock,  and  had  brought  its  owner  more  in  the  way  of  mis- 
understanding and  censure  than  any  earthly  luxury  he  could 
have  set  up.  It  was  only  a  carving  of  wood,  only  a  figure 
hung  upon  a  cross,  but  it  was  terribly  suggestive  of  the  Scarlet 
Lady,  and  the  sight  of  it  did  greatly  exercise  the  minds  of  the 
strictly  orthodox  who  had  occasion  to  enter  the  study  of  the 
Rev.  Frank  Netherwood. 

But  Mr.  Netherwood  was  no  disciple  of  the  Roman  form  of 
Catholicism.  Catholic  he  was,  in  the  broadest  and  best  sense 
of  the  word,  but  he  was  fettered  by  no  particular  creed,  and 
cramped  by  no  particular  dogma ;  nor  would  he  be  controlled 
by  those  who  were.  Nominally  attached  to  the  Church  of 
England,  he  was  in  reality  Christian  first  and  Churchman  after 
— genuine  enthusiast  (known  to  the  comfortable  as  "fanatic") 
through  and  through.  Of  good  birth,  of  ample  private  fortune, 
he  yet  chose  to  live  among  the  poorest  and  worst  of  his  kind, 
and  to  live  in  the  humblest  way ;  following  the  right  wherever 
it  chanced  to  lead,  combating  the  wrong  wherever  he  chanced 
to  find  it,  with  never  a  fear  of  personal  consequence.  Some- 
what alienated  from  his  own  kindred  by  what  they  chose  to  call 

82 


Ube  Curate  ot  St  Saviour's  83 

his  "eccentricity,"  he  h'ved  his  earnest  life  alone;  turned  aside 
for  ever  from  the  thought  of  marriage  by  the  death  of  the  woman 
he  had  loved,  an  earthly  future  of  the  purely  personal  kind  he 
had  none.  He  thus  felt  himself  free  to  spend  his  strength  and 
his  money  on  his  fellow-men,  and  he  spent  both  without  stint. 
It  was  nothing  to  him  that  his  fellow-workers  who  wore  the 
uniform  of  the  Church,  and  professedly  fought  under  the  same 
flag  as  he,  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  spoke  of  him  in  under- 
tones as  "a  little  extraordinary  " ;  nothing  to  him  that  even  his 
own  excellent  vicar,  in  attending  to  the  complaints  of  laxity 
brought  against  some  of  his  staff,  said  extenuatingly,  "Ah  !  you 
see,  Mr.  Netherwood  has  made  it  difficult  for  others  who  come 
after  him.  It  is  impossible  to  judge  men  by  his  standard.  He 
is  not  quite  as  other  men  are.  He  is  an  enthusiast,  what  some 
people  call  a — a — well,  a  crank  t " 

Which  speech,  coming  to  Mr.  Netherwood's  ears,  had  caused 
him  to  smile,  but  had  not  altered  his  method. 

"  Let  every  man  do  as  seemeth  best  to  him,"  said  he.  For 
himself,  he  did  what  he  did  because  he  could  do  no  other. 
Seeing  things  as  he  saw  them,  he  would  have  accounted  him- 
self unworthy  had  he  done  less.  But  upon  those  who  did  less 
and  thought  it  enough,  he  never  sat  in  judgment,  being  above 
all  things — merciful.  Yet  was  there  much  of  humanity  in  him, 
which  the  leaven  of  saintliness  could  not  eradicate.  When  he 
went  home  one  day,  to  find  a  very  exalted  personage  in  the 
shape  of  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  sitting  in  the  room  where 
hung  the  Figure  on  the  Cross,  and  found  that  the  exalted 
personage  had  come  there  solely  to  request  that  the  Figure  be 
removed,  all  the  pugnacity  in  him,  which  long  years  of  self- 
denial  had  not  killed,  showed  itself.  He  refused  to  remove 
the  carving  of  wood,  or  to  believe  that  its  presence  could 
possibly  be  a  genuine  cause  of  offence  to  any  unbiassed 
follower  of  the  faith  it  symbolised.  In  vain  the  good  bishop 
pointed  out  to  him  that  he  was  breaking  a  solemn  Command- 
ment when  he  set  up  that  graven  image,  that  he  was  placing  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  tottering  feet,  that  he  was 
counteracting  the  effect  of  his  own  good  work  when  he 
permitted  a  doubt  to  be  raised  as  to  whether  such  work  had  its 
source  in  that  which  was  of  God  or  that  which  was  of  the  Devil. 

Mr.  Netherwood,  standing  in  front  of  the  bishop,  waited 
until  he  was  invited  to  speak. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  then  courteously,  "  if  what  I  say  shall  give 
you  just  cause  to  doubt  my  fitness  for  a  place  among  you,  then 
by  all  means  suspend  me,  for  I  can  work  as  well  outside  the 


84  Bnuie  H)eane 

Church  as  I  can  in.  But  I  say,  and  I  say  openly,  that  good 
work  is  good  work,  by  whomsoever  done  ;  and  if  indeed  I  have 
been  permitted  to  accomplish  such  work,  then  has  no  man 
the  right  to  question  the  Source  of  it,  for  there  is  but  One,  and 
though  my  room  were  hung  about  with  graven  images  by  the 
score,  that  Source  could  neither  be  divided  nor  multiplied." 

"  That  is  a  simple  truth  to  us,  but  the  uneducated  mind  is 
narrow,  and  clings  to  recognised  form  and  rule." 

"  Because  it  pays  the  Church  to  keep  to  such  form  and  rule. 
For  me,  sir,  I  hope  those  who  know  me  will  believe  that  if  I 
had  any  leaning  towards  the  Church  of  Rome  I  should  not  be 
attached  to  the  Church  of  England,  and  for  the  carving — 
•crucifix'  if  you  will — I  cannot  believe  that  it  could  offend 
any  man  or  woman  to  whom  I  am  personally  known." 

"  But  nevertheless  it  may,  and  remember,  *  Woe  to  him  by 
whom  such  offence  cometh."* 

"  Say,  rather,  sir,  *  Woe  to  him  who  wastes  his  God-given 
life  in  the  splitting  of  straws,  and  the  killing  of  the  spirit  with 
the  letter.'  Has  not  our  Church  three  iron  crosses  ?  Has  not 
our  altar  a  golden  one?  Is  it  the  empty  cross  we  preach? 
Are  we  afraid  of  the  Figure  by  which  alone  the  cross  has  any 
significance  ?  No.  But  bring  the  two  together  and  there  is 
a  great  cry  of  animosity,  not  towards  the  symbol,  but  towards 
another  sect,  whose  form  of  worshipping  the  same  God  differs 
a  little  from  ours.  If  I  hung  a  picture  of  the  Crucifixion  over 
my  mantelpiece,  even  a  painting  of  a  crucifix,  no  man  would 
complain,  because  it  would  h&flat;  I  hang  the  wooden  carving, 
and  my  very  honesty  is  doubted.  Oh !  sir,  we  are  the  same 
children  of  the  same  God,  and  to  me  this  cavilling  is  pitiful ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  that,"  said  the  bishop  testily,  "  but 
people  are  pitiful.  If  they  weren't,  the  Church  would  not 
have  her  hands  so  full.  Is  there  no  little  way  by  which  we 
can  get  out  of  this  ?  You  say  this  was  a  personal  souvenir  ? 
Well,  why  not  hang  it,  for  instance,  in  your  bedroom  ?  " 

"  I  hang  it,  sir,  in  the  room  where  I  work.  It  assists  me, 
and  I  should  miss  it  Moreover,  if  I  hang  it  in  my  bedroom 
you  would  be  hearing  that  I  had  set  up  an  oratory.  If  it  is  where 
all  men  can  see  it,  my  sincerity  should  not  be  questioned. 
It  is  a  personal  souvenir,  carved  by  a  dying  lad  as  he  lay  upon 
his  back  in  a  wretched  room,  and  given  to  me  because  he  had 
nothing  else  to  give  in  return  for  a  little  sympathy  and  atten- 
tion. No,  sir,  if  I  cannot  remain  among  you  without  removing 
my  little  friend's  keepsake,  then  I  will  work  independently;  but 
for  the  keepsake,  it  will  remain  where  it  is." 


Ube  Curate  ot  St.  Saviour's  85 

And  the  bishop  walked  off  to  the  nearest  corner,  where  his 
carriage  was  waiting,  and  drove  to  St.  Saviour's  Vicarage.  He 
did  not  go  in ;  the  vicar  ran  out. 

*'  Has  your  lordship  seen  Mr.  Netherwood  ?  " 

"  We  have,"  said  the  bishop  tranquilly;  *'  our  advice  is  to  let 
him  alone,  and  find  more  men  like  him." 

So  he  had  been  "  let  alone,"  but  the  finding  of  men  like 
him  was  still  unaccomplished. 

He  looked  tired  to-night,  very  frail  and  worn.  He  had  had 
a  hard  day,  and  might  well  have  considered  his  night's  rest 
earned;  but  the  time  wore  on,  and  he  sat  there  with  closed  eyes, 
contracted  brows,  and  hands  the  restless  movement  of  which 
never  ceased.  Twice  the  door  op.ned,  and  an  elderly  woman, 
treading  softly,  advanced  and  Icol^ed  at  him,  coughed  to  attract 
his  attention,  failed,  and  withdrew.  The  second  closing  of  the 
door  roused  him.  He  turned  his  head  towards  it  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

Powerful  influence  over  the  minds  of  others  is  often  trace- 
able to  some  physical  peculiarity  in  the  person  who  wields 
it,  and  surely  those  beautiful  eyes  of  Mr.  Netherwood's  had 
something  to  do  with  the  power  he  wielded  over  those  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact.  Soft  and  dark  and  deep  they  were, 
at  once  humanly  intelligent  and  divinely  tender,  eyes  the 
penetrating  quality  of  which  it  is  hard  to  resist  or  to  evade. 

Perhaps  it  was  that  they  had  seen  so  much.  Had  seen  the 
all  but  hopelessness  of  human  reformation,  and  yet  had  kept 
their  steady  light ;  had  looked  into  the  depths  of  human 
infamy,  and  yet  had  never  ceased  to  be  compassionate ;  had 
watched  the  stifling  nights  through  in  dens  where  the  poor 
lay  herded  together  more  filthily  than  swine,  and  had  never 
turned  aside  in  discouragement ;  had  seen  the  innocent  suffer 
for  the  guilty,  and  yet  had  never  turned  away  in  despair. 

"Where  is  your  God,  who  lets  these  things  be?"  said  the 
cynics  to  the  patient  worker,  to  which  he  would  answer  with 
steadfast  eyes  fixed  ever  on  the  beyond  where  the  light  is. 

"The  man  who  wastes  his  time  in  asking  other  men  that  is 
little  likely  to  find  an  answer." 

When  Mr.  Netherwood's  vicar  had  said  of  him  that  he  was 
not  quite  as  other  men  are,  he  had  been  nearer  the  truth  than 
he  was  aware,  for  there  were  influences  in  the  younger  man's 
life  of  which  he  never  spoke.  To  him  they  were  real,  admitting 
of  no  doubt  or  question.  He  neither  sought  nor  evaded  them, 
but  once  possessed  by  them,  surrendered  himself  without 
resistance,  feeling  that  he  was  being  utilised  for  good,  and  for 


S6  Bnnfe  Deane 

good  only.  Such  influences  were  upon  him  to-night,  as  he  sat 
in  his  study,  separating  him  from  the  outside  world  as 
completely  as  though  he  were  not  of  it.  His  face  was  pale, 
his  hands  were  clasped  about  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  dark 
eyes  had  the  uncertain,  unseeing  look  of  the  sleep-walker.  The 
room  grew  dark,  and  the  objects  in  it  faded  away ;  all,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  but  the  carven  Figure  on  the  Cross,  slanting 
downward  where  it  hung,  until  the  light  of  It  encompassed  him 
and  shut  him  in,  and  all  the  rest  was  gloom. 

There  was  a  Voice  in  his  ear  which  he  knew,  a  touch  on 
his  head  which  he  loved,  a  beckoning  hand  in  front  of  him 
which  he  had  never  yet  refused  to  follow,  let  it  lead  him 
whither  it  would.     Then  out  of  the  great  hush  the  Voice  said  : 

"  Listen  ! " 

And  he  answered  :  "  I  am  listening." 

"  What  do  you  hear  ?  " 

*'  I  hear  the  moan  of  the  wind,  and  the  driving  rain  outside." 

The  Voice  said :  "  There  is  something  more  than  that." 

"  I  hear  the  tread  of  the  passers-by,  and  the  sound  of  a 
striking  clock." 

"There  is  something  more  than  that." 

"  I  hear  the  hoarse  voice  of  a  drunken  man  as  he  staggers 
by  to  his  home." 

"  Leave  him  alone  for  to-night." 

"  I  hear  the  muffled  roar  of  London  by  night" 

"  That  is  not  meant  for  you." 

"  I  hear  nothing  more." 

"  Listen  again." 

"  Nothing — nothing." 

"Listen  again." 

"  I  hear  the  moaning  of  a  human  voice." 

"  What  voice  ?  " 

"  A  woman's  voice — and  young.    But  it  is  faint  and  far  away." 

"  Still,  it  has  words.     Can  you  not  hear  them  ?  " 

'*  The  voice  is  low,  but  it  seems  to  say,  '  God  help  me  I 
What  shall  I  do  V" 

"  Go  out  and  answer  it.  The  way  is  long,  but  not  to 
willing  feet,  and  dark,  but  not  to  eyes  that  see.  Take  no 
heed  of  its  length,  or  of  its  darkness,  or  of  its  windings,  and 
it  shall  bring  you  to  a  place  where  all  is  quiet,  under  the 
shadow  of  a  great  wall.  There  is  a  soul  adrift  to-night  on 
the  waters  of  despair.     Go  out  and  rescue  it." 

« I  will  go." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose." 


Ube  Curate  of  St.  Saviour's  87 

"  I  will  lose  none." 

The  light  from  the  Figure  receded ;  the  room  grew  bright 
again  with  fire  and  gas  ;  the  still  figure  in  the  chair  gave  a  start, 
and  then  a  violent  shiver,  as  the  elderly  woman  who  had  entered 
before  bent  over  it  and  spoke : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  startling  you,  Mr.  Frank,  but  it  is 
getting  late  and  I  was  anxious,  for  you  are  so  white ;  and  though 
you  were  asleep,  your  eyes  were  not  quite  shut.  You  are  not 
well,  or  you  are  over-tired." 

"  I  am  perfectly  well,"  he  said,  smiling  as  his  old  friend  laid 
her  hand  over  his  dazzled  eyes.  She  had  followed  him  from 
luxury  to  work,  and  was  privileged.  "  But  I  had  no  idea  I 
was  asleep." 

"  And  you  will  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Well,  by  and  by  ;  but  first  I  must  go  out." 

"  Oh,  not  any  more  to-night,"  she  urged  in  distress ;  "  please, 
my  dear  boy,  not  any  more  to-night." 

"  But  it  is  imperative." 

"  Surely  to-morrow  will  do !  It  is  a  quarter  to  eleven  now, 
and  such  a  fearful  night" 

"Why  fearful?" 

"  Stormy.  It  holds  up  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  the 
rain  comes  down  again  in  torrents." 

"  Rain  and  wind  are  nothing  to  the  healthy.  Will  you  let 
me  have  my  boots  ?  " 

"  If  you  were  healthy,"  she  pleaded,  "  I  mean  strong.  But 
you  cannot  expect  to  work  at  this  rate  without  breaking  down, 
and  you  look  worn  out.  And  when  you  have  broken  down, 
where  will  be  your  thanks?  If  the  people  were  worth  it,  I 
would  not  say  a  word ;  but  a  whole  city  of  them  are  not  worth 
you,  Mr.  Frank,  and  all  your  trying  will  never  alter  them." 

He  went  to  the  old  woman's  side,  and,  still  smiling  at  her  good- 
humouredly,  lifted  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  his  keepsake. 

"  Were  we  worth  i/ia/  ?  "  he  said  gently.  "  Now,  there's  a 
good  soul,  don't  waste  time,  but  find  my  boots." 

She  left  the  room  with  a  gesture  of  resignation,  while  Mr. 
Netherwood  went  out  to  the  hall,  and  there  put  on  his  overcoat. 

"  Any  use  taking  an  umbrella  ?  "  inquired  he  cheerily,  as  he 
took  his  boots. 

**  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Frank,  no  use  at  all." 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  and 
bending  his  head  as  a  great  gust  of  wind  swept  in  and  all  but 
extinguished  the  hall  lamp.  "  I  hope  you  will  not  sit  up, 
because,  if  I  should  want  you,  you  will  not  mind  being  called." 


88  Bnnfe  Deane 

"You  know  that,"  she  said,  as  she  held  the  door  with 
difficulty  from  banging,  and  stoo'd  to  watc  h  Mr,  Netherwood  as 
he  went  out,  his  head  bent  against  the  driving  gusts,  and  his 
tall  figure  the  one  thing  that  was  human  in  the  gloom  of  the 
storm-swept  street. 

At  the  corner  where  the  street  opened  into  a  busier 
thoroughfare  he  paused  to  consider  a  moment,  then  turned  to 
the  right  and  walked  rapidly  on  Past  the  first  turning,  past 
the  second,  pausing  at  the  third  for  an  instant,  deciding  not  to 
take  it,  and  continuing  his  hurried  walk  onward  for  a  short 
distance.  Then,  as  if  confronted  by  a  sudden  obstacle,  he 
turned  and  crossed  the  road. 

Straight  in  front  of  him  was  a  court — narrow,  dark,  evil- 
smelling.  He  paused  again  here,  as  if  in  uncertainty,  but 
entered  and  went  straight  through,  turning  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left,  speaking  to  no  one,  spoken  to  by  no  one,  going  his 
way  blindly,  trusting  to  the  Voice  within  him  to  lead  him  aright. 

At  the  entrance  to  a  spacious  square  he  raised  his  head, 
and  saw  that  he  was  in  a  neighbourhood  of  which  he  knew 
little,  his  work  lying  in  one  not  nearly  so  respectable.  He 
crossed  the  square  and  came  out  upon  a  road  where  the 
cars  were  still  running,  and  dripping  'busmen  were  urging 
drenched  horses  along  a  road  as  slippery  as  glass  with  the 
rain.  Just  as  he  came  into  the  light  of  a  lamp,  a  woman's 
figure,  in  sombre,  shapeless  garments,  brushed  past  him^  then 
suddenly  turned  back. 

"  Mr.  Netherwood  ?  "  said  a  gentle,  surprised  voice. 

"  Sister  Margaret  ?  "  responded  he  doubtfully. 

"  Yes.     What  a  terrible  night ! " 

"  It  is.  Are  you  seeking  assistance  ?  Are  you  in  difficulty 
of  any  kind  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ! — only  going  to  relieve  Sister  Ruth  for  the  night." 

"  Are  you  close  here  ?  " 

"Very;  25,  Errols  Street." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-night." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  on,  somewhat  confused  and 
harassed.  The  interruption  had  interfered  with  the  clear- 
ness of  his  inner  sight  and  hearing.  For  an  instant  fear 
took  hold  of  him,  fear  of  having  done  wrong  in  turning 
aside  to  ask  direction  of  the  Sister.  But  after  one  moment 
of  keen  dread,  he  put  the  thought  behind  him ;  his  lip 
curled  in  sudden  self-contempt.  Was  the  God  he  served 
such  a  petty  Deity  that  He  should  withdraw  His  guidance 
because  of  a  question  asked  of  one  who   seemed  likely  to 


Ube  Curate  of  St»  Saviour's  89 

possess  the  knowledge  that  was  necessary  ?  No  !  He 
thrust  the  doubt  away  as  one  of  the  devil's  prompting,  and  went 
swiftly  on  until  he  came  to  a  place  where  three  roads  met. 
Here  he  paused,  while  the  rain-storm  ceased,  and  overhead  a 
rift  in  the  scurrying  clouds  disclosed  one  calm,  bright  star. 
He  smiled  at  it  gratefully. 

To  him  it  had  a  significant  beckoning  look.  Surely  his 
work  lay  that  way  ?  He  crossed  the  busy  road  and  took  the 
quieter  one  to  his  left,  walking  on  until  the  clock  of  a  neigh- 
bouring church  struck,  telling  him  that  nearly  an  hour  had 
passed  since  he  had  left  home. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  the  Voice  had  said  to  him  in  the 
solitude  of  his  room.  He  knew  that  he  had  lost  none,  and  was 
not  afraid ;  but  smiled  a  little  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  the 
howl  of  derision  he  could  raise  about  his  head,  the  flood  of 
nineteenth  century  common-sense  which  would  be  ready  to 
sweep  over  him,  did  he  but  tell  his  fellow-workers  that  he  had 
come  hither  on  this  wild  night  in  obedience  to  a  Voice  heard  in 
a  dream. 

Not  one  of  those  fellow-workers  but  were  ready  to  stand  up 
on  any  Sunday  of  the  year  and  impressively  intone  to  a  listen- 
ing congregation  the  sacred  stories  of  old.  How  that  divine 
voices  had  come  to  men  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night,  telling 
them  to  arise  and  be  about  their  Master's  business.  Ay,  and 
not  only  would  those  fellow-workers  impressively  intone  those 
stories,  but  they  would  confidently  expect  their  hearers  to 
believe  them — would  be  shaken  to  the  depths  of  their  orthodox 
souls  did  any  man  dare  to  get  up  and  say  that  he  did  not 
believe  them. 

But  should  any  man  get  up  and  say,  "  I,  too,  hear  the 
Divine  Voice,  and  go  whither  It  tells  me ; "  how  then  ? 

Of  a  surety  would  the  intoners  of  ancient  truth  turn,  and  say 
in  their  natural  human  voices : 

"  Thou  art  deluded,  or  the  truth  is  not  in  thee.  In  either 
case  thou  art  a  danger  to  Society,  and  should  be  dealt  with 
accordingly." 

For  Faith  is  of  the  past,  or  at  best  may  now  be  permissable 
on  Sundays.  The  thing  for  the  present  is  hard-headed  common 
sense,  that  stops  the  ears  of  man  to  any  voice  but  the  voice  of 
Reason,  that  bids  him  trouble  not  his  soul  about  that  which 
he  cannot  see,  and  seeing — grasp ;  and  grasping — show  to  his 
neighbour  for  a  solid,  tangible  reality. 

The  Reverend  Frank  Netherwood  smiled  again  as  he  thought 
bow  concerning  things  past  men  professed  to  walk  by  faith. 


90  Bnnie  Z)eane 

For  the  present — to  walk  by  sight  was  customary  and  exposed 
no  man  to  ridicule.  Besides,  the  future  draws  so  heavily  upon 
one's  credulity  that,  maybe,  prudence  suggests  economy,  even 
to  the  verge  of  present  starvation. 

The  clouds  were  gathering  again ;  the  star  was  hidden,  but 
Mr.  Netherwood  pressed  on,  then  suddenly  paused  and  looked 
about  him,  trying  to  locate  himself,  but  without  success,  for 
though  he  knew  his  London  pretty  well,  he  had  taken  little 
heed  of  the  streets  and  squares  tftrough  which  he  had  passed 
to-night.  He  knew,  however,  that  he  was  going  North 
Londonwards,  and  fancied  he  recognised  the  road  in 
which  he  stood,  or  could  have  done  so  but  for  the  general 
gloom,  which  the  flickering  street-lamps  did  little  to  relieve. 
On  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road  were  good-class  private 
houses;  on  the  left  a  lawn-like  plot  of  ground  enclosed  by 
smoke-dimmed  evergreens,  and  further  by  a  smoke-blackened 
iron  palisading  mounted  upon  a  low  stone  wall. 

Two  or  three  cabs  stood  on  the  stand  hard  by,  their  drivers 
half-asleep  inside  them,  for  shelters  were  not  general  in  those 
days.  The  light  from  the  lamps  struck  across  Mr.  Netherwood's 
path  for  an  instant,  and  then  was  left  behind,  but  it  made  him 
dimly  visible  to  a  woman  who  was  leaning  against  the  railings. 
She  stepped  out  and  spoke  to  him — spoke  to  him  familiarly, 
persuasively,  touching  his  arm  with  a  hand  which  was  covered 
with  what  had  once  been  a  delicate,  well-fitting  glove.  He 
started,  keeping  his  back  to  the  distant,  rain-blurred  lamps. 

"  Is  it  you  f  "  he  said,  in  an  oddly  disappointed,  weary  way. 

"  Me  ?  "  laughed  the  woman.  "  Yes,  it  is  me.  But  who  you 
are  the  deuce  knows.     However,  if  we're  old  friends — " 

"  We  are  very  old  friends,"  he  interposed  quietly.  "  You 
are  Kate  Lucas,  I  think,  and  I — " 

Before  he  could  finish  the  woman  recoiled,  and  pressed  her 
hands  over  her  ears. 

"  God  forgive  me  ! "  she  bui-st  out  piteously.  "  It's  Mr. 
Netherwood  1 " 

"  Yes,  it  is  I.  I  have  made  many  inquiries  for  you,  but  have 
been  able  to  find  no  trace  of  you.  Not  that  I  had  given  you 
up — don't  think  that.  By  your  evading  me  for  so  long,  I 
concluded  that  you  were  passing  by  some  other  name." 

He  spoke  with  an  utter  absence  of  reproach  or  anger,  but 
the  woman  shrank  from  him  as  though  she  would  have  been 
glad  had  the  earth  opened  to  swallow  her  up.  He  followed 
her  back  to  the  railing,  and  stood  close  to  her. 

"  Let  me  go,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  dreary  way ;  "  let  me  ga 


Ubc  Curate  ot  St  Saviour's  91 

You  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  me.  You're  one  sort  and  I'm 
another — you  at  the  top  and  me  at  the  bottom.  You've  had  a 
good  many  tries  to  alter  me,  and  it's  only  wasting  your  time." 

"  Time  is  not  mine,  nor  have  I  ever  wasted  it  while  it  has 
been  passed  in  trying  to  make  you  as  happy  as  I  am  myself. 
Have  you  been  thinking  of  me  to-night  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  surprised. 

"  There's  scarcely  a  day  or  a  night  that  I  don't  think  of  you, 
sir ;  but  for  to-day,  I  doubt  if  you've  entered  my  head  at  all,  for 
a  wonder ! " 

"  You  are  in  no  urgent  distress  of  any  sort  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Have  you  been  with  anyone  who  is  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

He  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"  Where  are  you  living  now  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  shan't  tell  you,  sir,"  she  said  firmly.  "  No,  I  will  not. 
You  go  to  those  who  will  repay  you  for  your  trouble.  There 
are  such,  but  I'm  not  one  of  them." 

"Where  are  you  living?" 

*'  I  shall  not  tell  you,  sir,  not  if  I  stand  here  all  night." 

**  That  is  foolish,  because  I  am  so  sure  to  find  out.  If  I  had 
not  urgent  work  elsewhere,  I  should  not  leave  you  until  you 
had  returned  to  the  Home  with  me." 

*'  You'd  have  to  wait  some  time,  sir.  I  went  back  once  of 
my  own  accord,  because  I  couldn't  shake  off  the  thought  of 
something  you  had  said  to  me.  Not  a  soul  in  that  place 
warmed  to  me  or  gave  me  a  welcome.  They  were  all  as  stiff  as 
their  collars  !  When  you  came  in  on  service  night  you  gave  me 
a  glad,  friendly  sort  of  look,  and  I  knew  that  you  were  pleased ; 
but  I  heard  the  Matron  say  to  you,  '  Kate  ?  Oh,  yes,  she's 
back — for  a  little  while'     They  knew  me  better  than  you,  sir." 

"  They  knew  you  not  at  all.  /  know  you,  and,  because  I 
know  you,  I  refuse  to  take  any  judgment  of  you  but  my  own. 
Before  many  days  I  shall  have  found  you  out.  Remember,  I 
never  cease  to  pray  for  you,  and — God  is  not  deaf." 

She  whitened,  and  turned  away  with  a  miserable,  impatient 
cry.  She  knew  he  would  keep  his  word.  He  had  found  her 
out  before. 

It  was  raining  again,  heavily.  She  glanced  up  at  one  of  the 
cabmen,  who,  wrapped  in  a  sack,  sat  on  his  wretched  box. 

"  Give  me  a  rest  inside  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Don't  mind  for  a  few  minutes,  onless  you're  wet" 


9t  Hnnie  Deane 

"I'm  not  wet.     I've  only  just  come  out" 

"  Oh  ! "  laughed  the  man  ;  "dry  inside  an'  out  ? '* 

"That's  it,"  she  said,  as  the  hint  appealed  to  her,  and, 
feeling  in  her  pocket,  she  offered  the  man  twopence. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Get  in,  get  m,"  he  said  gruffly ;  "  I 
don't  want  your  money." 

She  gave  a  hard  laugh,  then  huddled  herself  up  in  a  corner 
of  the  cab  to  wait  until  the  storm  had  driven  by. 

Mr.  Netherwood  waited  for  no  storm,  but  pushing  on  in  the 
teeth  of  it,  came  to  the  end  of  the  iron  railing,  then  put  out  his 
hand  and  grasped  it,  for  the  rain-laden  wind  swept  round  the 
corner  with  the  force  of  a  flying  giant.  Holding  fast  by  the  rail  he 
peered  up  the  narrow  way — almost  too  narrow  to  be  called  a 
road — which  lay  in  front  of  him.  By  the  aid  of  a  flickering 
lamp  he  saw  that  another  side  of  the  enclosed  shrubbery 
ran  along  here,  and  fronting  that — a  dark  unbroken  mass  of 
brickwork. 

"And  it  shall  bring  you  to  a  place  where  all  is  guiet'^ 
under  the  shadow  of  a  great  wall." 

The  words  flashed  through  his  brain  like  a  touch  of  fir&  He 
felt  his  cheek  pale  and  his  knees  tremble,  while  his  heart  beat 
low,  and  the  human  life  in  him  seemed  to  shrink  down  in  very 
awe.  For  here  was  the  "  shadow  of  the  great  wall."  He  stood 
under  it  now.  All  was  profoundly  quiet  and  lonely,  with 
the  curious  loneliness  which  close  proximity  to  busy  life 
accentuates  rather  than  softens.  The  wall  seemed  to  be 
a  blank  one,  but  as  Mr.  Netherwood  stood  under  it,  and, 
shading  the  pouring  rain  from  his  eyes,  looked  up,  he 
distinguished  two  or  three  of  the  swinging  semi-circular 
windows  which  are  sometimes  used  to  light  stores  or 
stables.  The  sudden  stamp  of  a  horse's  hoof  and  the  clang 
of  a  chain  told  him  that  the  buildings  were  stables.  Feel- 
ing his  way  along  he  came  to  a  heavy  door,  securely  closed 
and  fastened  for  the  night.  Leaving  this  behind  he  pro- 
ceeded cautiously  for  a  few  paces  and  stopped.  Not  a 
human  being  passed  him,  not  a  human  footstep  was  to  be 
heard  on  either  side.  P2vidently  the  place  was  little  fre- 
quented, even  if  it  were  a  thoroughfare  at  all,  which  he  felt 
inclined  to  doubt.  It  was  a  very  unlikely  place  in  which 
to  seek  anyone,  but  he  was  not  discouraged.  Something 
within  him  told  him  that  he  had  been  guided  aright.  He 
stepped  back  until  his  shoulder  rested  against  the  wall  of 
the  Mews.  The  shelter  thus  afforded  him  was  slight,  still  it 
was  something,  and  as  he  stood  he  listened.     The  rain  was 


Ube  Curate  of  St  Saviour's  93 

falling  lightly  now,  and  the  lulling  wind  crept  round  by  the 
wall  like  the  sound  of  a  human  sigh.  Mr.  Netherwood  moved 
a  few  feet  forward  and  stopped,  with  his  hand  on  the  wet  brick- 
work, and  his  ear  strained  to  catch  that  faint  sound.  It  was  a 
sigh,  louder  now  and  nearer  ;  a  sigh  of  the  nerve-stirring,  blood- 
curdling sort,  like  that  which  flutters  through  darkened  rooms, 
where  the  watchers  sit  and  tremble  as  they  remember  that 
even  so  shall  it  one  day  be  with  them.  Many  such  vigils  had 
Netherwood  kept,  but  familiarity  with  them  does  not  harden 
one.  Even  his  blood  ran  coldly,  and  the  roots  of  his  hair 
lifted.  Someone  was  lying  within  a  few  feet  of  where  he  stood, 
but  though  he  peered  to  right  and  left,  the  darkness  was  so 
great  that  he  could  distinguish  nothing.  So  he  stood  away 
from  the  wall,  and,  raising  his  voice,  asked  was  anyone  near  ? 

The  awful  sighing  ceased  a  moment,  then  went  on  afresh. 

"  Is  anyone  near  ?  "  he  asked  again,  stepping  back  to  the 
wall,  for  the  sound  seemed  to  come  from  there.  A  moment's 
silence,  and  then  there  came  out  of  the  darkness  a  smothered 
shriek  of  agony,  or  terror,  or  both. 

Mr.  Netherwood  bent  down  and  groped  about.  There,  on  the 
ground,  huddled  up  against  the  dripping  wall,  was  something 
human  and  feminine,  but  whether  young  or  old  he  could  not  tell. 

*'  Who  are  you,  poor  soul  ?  "  said  he  compassionately,  "  and 
what  are  you  doing  here  alone  ?  I  am  Frank  Netherwood,  a 
curate  of  St.  Saviour's.  Is  that  enough  to  make  you  trust  me, 
and  tell  me  what  evil  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

The  wet  heap  writhed  and  struggled,  beating  itself  the  while 
fiercely  against  the  wall.  Netherwood  tried  to  lift  it,  but  two 
bare  hands  sprang  out  and  held  him  off.  He  desisted,  and 
spoke  again  gently,  trying  to  gain  the  confidence  of  his 
mysterious  "  find." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Indeed  I  am  what  I  say,  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England.  Surely,  therefore,  I  am  to  be  trusted." 

The  woman — if  she  were  a  woman — only  writhed  and 
struggled  like  a  thing  in  torment,  twisting  herself  along  the 
ground  as  if  to  escape  notice.  Netherwood  followed  her,  and 
bending  took  firm  but  gentle  hold  of  her. 

"  Don't  try  to  get  away  from  me.  I  am  here  to  help  you — 
sent  here  on  purpose.  Listen  to  me  and  try  to  follow  what  I 
say.     You  have  been  in  sore  distress  to-night  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  You  have  been  wondering  what  to  do  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  You  have  cried  to  God  for  help  ?  " 


94  Bnnfe  l^eane 

A  despairing  moan. 

"  And  you  thought  He  was  deaf,  or  cruel,  or  had  forsaken 
you  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  sympathetic  cry,  as  if  that  way  of  putting  it 
touched  her. 

"  That  is  not  so,  is  nei^er  so.  He  heard,  and  has  sent  me. 
If  you  doubt  it,  ask  yourself  how  else  should  I  be  in  this  lonely 
place,  where  I  have  no  business  but  you  ?  And  which  is  some 
distance  from  my  own  home  and  my  own  work.  Think  if  at  any 
time  to-night  you  have  cried,  *  God  help  me  I  What  shall  I  do  t ' " 

Still  no  answer,  but  two  bare,  icy  hands  groped  about  until 
they  found  his,  and  held  them  as  the  drowning  hold  a  rope. 

"  Tell  me,  is  not  that  true  ?  " 

He  felt  a  wet  face  touch  his  hands,  and  knew  that  she  was 
acknowledging  the  truth  of  what  he  said. 

"  Now,  do  you  doubt  that  I  am  here  to  help  you  ?  " 

She  made  an  effort  to  stand ;  he  bent  and  lifted  her, 
rested  her  gently  back  against  the  wall,  then  felt  in  one  of 
his  pockets.  He  had  been  the  last  in  the  mission-room  that 
night,  and  had  brought  a  box  of  matches  away  with  him. 
Standing  with  his  back  to  the  wind,  he  cautiously  struck  a 
light,  shading  it  with  his  hand.  For  one  instant  the  figure 
propped  up  by  the  wall  stood  out  in  the  feeble  glimmer ;  for 
one  instant  two  great  despairing  eyes  met  Mr.  Netherwood's, 
two  blue  lips  parted  and  twitched  with  impotent  desire  to 
speak,  but  in  the  next  the  figure  had  twisted  face  to  the  wall 
again,  and  Netherwood  heard  the  same  smothered  shriek  of 
agony,  or  terror,  or  both.  He  laid  his  hands  upon  the  girl's 
shoulders;  that  she  was  only  a  girl  that  flash  of  light  had 
shown  him. 

"In  God's  name,"  he  said  then  earnestly,  "tell  me  what 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothin' — nothin',"  she  said  through  tight-clenched  teeth ; 
"  Where's  the  good  o'  you  ?     I  can't  tell  you.^^ 

It  was  not  impertinently  said,  nor  coarsely;  the  tone  simply 
implied  that  she  might  have  told  somebody  other  than  he. 
He  took  it  at  once. 

"  Is  there  anyone  you  would  tell  ?  " 

"Not  now,  not  now.  Let  me  alone.  I'm  dyin';  but  oh! 
it's  so  long  about — so  long — so  long  !  " 

"You  are  not  dying.  I  am  sure  you  are  very  ill,  from 
some  cause  unknown  to  me.  Now,  I  am  going  to  get  a  cab 
and  to  take  you  to  some  place  of  safety  where  you  will  be 
well  looked  after.     I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 


•Cbe  Curate  of  St.  Saviour's  95 

She  put  out  her  hands  and  held  him  back. 

"  I  can't  tell  you^''  she  moaned  helplessly,  "  but  T  see  your 
face  in  the  light  o'  the  match,  an'  it  looked  so  good  an'  kind  ! 
An'  oh,  please,  if  you  could  take  me  to  some  woman,  or  fetch 
one  here,  I'd  tell  her.  It's  a  woman  as  /wants.  ::he'd  know, 
an'  she'd  help  me  ! " 

"  Stay  here  for  five  minutes,"  Mr.  Netherwood  said,  "  and  I 
will  send  you  what  you  want." 

The  girl  was  alone  again,  while  her  new  friend  walked 
swiftly  back  to  the  high  road,  remembering  the  cabs  he  had 
seen  on  the  stand. 

There  was  only  one,  and  as  he  reached  it,  the  door 
opened  and  the  woman  Kate  got  out.  She  tried  to  slip  away 
unrecognised,  but,  quick  as  she  was,  was  not  quick  enough. 

"  Kate,  I  want  you." 

"  Not  to-night,  sir — not  to-night.  I  can't  come  to-night, 
and  I  won't." 

"  Yes,  you  will.    Listen  to  me." 

"  No,  Mr.  Netherwood,  no.  I'm  going  home  now ;  I  am, 
upon  my  word.  I  just  sat  there  out  of  the  rain.  It  is  clearing 
up,  and  I  am  going  home.  I'll  report  myself  to  you 
to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  will  not  do.  It  must  be  now.  I  want  help, 
and  you  must  give  it  me." 

"  You  want  help  from  me,  sir  ?    That  isn't  likely." 

"Never  mind  that  now."  He  turned  to  the  cabman.  "I 
will  come  up  beside  you." 

"  Right,  sir.     It's  pretty  damp." 

"  That  does  not  matter.     Kate,  you  will  get  inside." 

Kate  reluctantly  got  inside,  and  Mr.  Netherwood  mounted 
to  the  seat  beside  the  driver.  In  less  than  five  minutes  he  gave 
the  order  to  stop. 

"  This  ain't  a  thoroughfare,  sir ;  this  is  the  back  way  to 
Grandison's  Gardens,  and  here's  Grandison's  Mews." 

"  You  can  wait  here  for  us." 

He  descended  and  opened  the  cab-door  for  the  astonished 
woman  inside. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed.  Everything  was  pitch  dark,  and  the  farther 
they  went  the  blacker  it  looked. 

"  Where  are  we,  sir  ?  " 

"  Quite  safe,"  rejoined  he  cheerily.  '*  We  have  not  much 
farther  to  go.  Keep  close  to  this  wall,  and  you  will  come  to  a 
girl — a  poor,  desolate  creature  in  great  distress.     Will  you  say  I 


96.  Hnnie  2)eane 

sent  you  ?  I  will  wait  here  in  case  you  want  help,  but  unless 
you  do  I  shall  keep  in  the  background.  I  can  do  nothing  for 
her.  What  she  wants  is  a  woman's  help  and  attention.  While  I 
was  wondering  where  to  find  her  these  things,  I  came  upon  you." 

Something  in  the  tone,  an  implied  trust  in  her  as  a  woman 
still,  checked  the  bitter  jest  at  her  own  expense  that  rose  to  Kate's 
lips.     She  went  on  up  the  dark,  wet  path  as  she  was  directed. 

She  found  the  girl  still  standing  face  to  the  wall,  quite  rigid 
and  motionless,  save  for  an  occasional  strong  shiver. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  said  the  woman,  touching  her  timidly, 
"you're  to  come  with  me.  Mr.  Netherwood  sent  me.  I'm 
to  get  you  to  the  corner.  There's  a  cab  there.  Oh,  poor  little 
soul !  Why,  you  are  drenched !  No  wonder  you  shiver  I 
What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

Getting  no  answer,  she  ventured  to  take  the  girl  in  her  arms, 
then  felt  for  her  left  hand,  and  examined  by  touch  its  bare, 
cold  fingers. 

Kate  asked  no  more  questions,  but  stood  thinking. 

**  You're  a  bit  of  a  thing,  and  I'm  strong,  but  whether  I 
can  carry  you  to  the  coiner  or  not  I  don't  know.  Anyway, 
I  can  try." 

The  half-conscious  girl  was  a  dead  weight,  and  Kate  raised 
her  voice : 

"  Where  are  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  here." 

*•  Will  you  tell  the  man  to  'back'  the  cab  to  here?  She 
can't  walk,  and  I  can't  carry  her." 

Cabby's  unwilling  horse  was  slowly  backed  with  clatter  and 
difficulty ;  but  at  last  the  lamps  threw  a  patch  of  light  on  the 
spot  where  the  two  women  stood. 

Kate  had  taken  off  her  smartly-shabby  fur-lined  cloak,  and 
had  wrapped  the  girl  in  it. 

"  Please  take  her  while  I  get  in,  sir,  and  then  give  her  to  me." 

She  dropped  into  Kate's  arms  like  a  figure  of  stone,  but 
finding  a  bright  light  upon  her  face,  buried  the  poor  face 
upon  her  new  friend's  bosom  with  a  plaintive  cry  of  shame. 

Kate  gathered  her  up  and  hushed  her  as  one  hushes  a 
baby,  talking  to  her,  soothing  her,  stroking  her  dripping  hair 
out  of  her  eyes,  and  holding  her  hands  to  the  warmth  of  her 
own  breast,  while  the  cab  went  on  to  its  destination. 

When  at  last  it  drew  up  in  front  of  a  lofty  red-brick 
building,  surmounted  by  an  iron  cross,  a  neighbouring  clock 
struck  twelve. 


CHAPTER    XII 

"  GOD   BLESS   IT  1  " 

Mr.  Netherwood  descended,  rang  t!ie  bell,  was  admitted,  and 
spoke  to  the  Sister-in-charge,  who  summoned  the  Matron. 
That  good  person  showed  signs  of  irritation  as  she  looked  at 
the  girl,  who  was  assisted  into  the  hall,  for  she  saw  that  rest 
for  that  night  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  Matron's  irritation  was  not  unnatural.  To  be  summoned 
from  one's  bed  on  a  cold  night  is  not  conducive  to  geniality, 
and  even  the  saving  of  souls  may  degenerate  into  a  matter  of 
business  :  office  hours  from  ten  to  four.  Therefore  was  there 
some  parleying,  a  murmur  of  "  No  suitable  accommodation  for 
such  a  case,"  "  It  could  be  better  attended  to  at  a  hospital," 
and  the  like.  Which  parleying  was  cut  short  by  Mr.  Netherwood, 
who  begged  that  no  obstacle  be  offered  to  the  girl's  reception, 
but  that  she  be  attended  to  straightway. 

"  For,"  said  he  to  the  flushed  and  fidgety  Matron,  "  I  can 
permit  no  obstacles — I  see  none.  We  have  rooms,  there  must 
be  one  for  her.  Were  there  no  other  woman  here,  you  are 
here,  and  can  do  your  best  for  her.  Pray  let  there  be  no  half- 
heartedness  among  us.  There  should  be  none  among  tho^e 
who  have  had  the  courage  to — profess." 

The  Matron  flushed  deeper,  glancing  to  the  other  end  of  the 
hall,  where  Kate  and  the  Sister-in-charge  were  bending  over  the 
moaning  girl :  three  very  distinct  types  of  womanhood  —the 
Sister  at  the  top,  Kate  at  the  bottom,  and  Annie  a  kind  of 
connecting  link  between  the  two. 

Mr.  Netherwood  passed  out  on  his  way  to  a  medical  man, 
saying  to  Kate  as  he  did  so  : 

*'  You  will  stay  with  her  ?  You  can  be  of  use.  I  find  wa 
are  short  of  hands." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Kate  meekly. 

The  Matron  controlled  herself,  and  set  to  work  in  earnest. 
Mr.  Netherwood  was  ihe  authority  here.  So  much  of  his  time, 
energy,  and  substance  had  been  spent  on  the  founding  of  ths 
"Home"  that  no  one  dared  rebel  against  him  openly,     in 

97  G 


98  annfe  2)eanc 

vain  some  of  the  officers  had  tried  to  impress  upon  him  the 
absolute  necessity  of  "  System,"  and  the  fatality  of  permitting 
one  department  to  interfere  with  another ;  to  urge  upon  him,  in 
fact,  the  stern  enforcement  of  rules  and  regulations. 

"  I  see,"  he  had  responded  promptly ;  "  but  I  am  not 
seeking  to  establish  an  office  carried  on  by  machinery.  I  could 
take  you  to  scores  of  such  failures  now.  My  Home  must  be  a 
home,  and  the  officials  must  have  hearts  as  well  as  heads.  If 
I  establish  these  rules  you  ask  for,  I  ensure  your  greater  ease 
and  leisure,  but  what  about  the  unhappy  souls  I  seek  to  benefit  ? 
I  drive  them  away  with  a  scourge  of  red  tape.  No  !  I  seek 
neither  ease  nor  leisure  for  myself;  in  my  helpers  I  expect  to 
find  those  who  are  one  with  me." 

Therefore  was  Annie  Deane  admitted  to  the  Home  that 
night  instead  of  being  sent  to  the  nearest  hospital.  Not  that 
it  mattered  one  whit  to  her  whether  she  were  admitted  or  not, 
for  her  life  was  at  too  low  an  ebb.  Those  hideous  hours 
between  dusk  and  midnight  had  crushed  all  feeling  out  of  her. 
In  body  and  mind  alike  she  had  passed  the  acute  stage  of 
suffering,  and  was  numb.  But  with  warmth  and  skilful  atten- 
tion the  numbness  passed  away.  She  had  to  come  back  to 
life,  and  coming,  to  lie  in  that  high,  bare  room,  moaning  and 
praying  to  die,  while  the  pale  Sister  and  the  watchful  doctor 
listened  to  her  passionate  wonder  that  death  should  refuse  to 
put  an  end  to  her  torture  and  let  her  be  at  peace.  Why  h  d 
they  brought  her  here  ?  Why  had  they  not  left  her  under  that 
wall  in  the  rain  ?  It  was  cruel,  she  burst  out  frantically,  If 
only  they  had  left  her  alone,  she  would  have  been  quite  dead 
now — dead,  and  cold,  and  quiet.  Oh,  merciful  God !  would 
someone  pray  to  Him  to  send  her  a  little,  only  a  little,  quiet  ? 

What  had  she  done  that  she  should  be  singled  out  to  suffer 
in  this  way  ?  Was  she  too  wicked  to  die  ?  She  had  heard  of 
strong  people  dying  easily — dying  swiftly,  without  pain,  like  a 
baby  going  to  sleep,  but  for  her — 

The  pain  of  a  hundred  deaths  had  got  her  in  its  grip.  The 
very  soul  of  her  tried  to  wrench  itself  free  of  her  body,  to 
spring  forward  and  catch  the  pale  Figure  that  came  near  and 
looked  her  in  the  eyes,  and  yet  withheld  its  hand. 

At  last,  when  the  framework  of  the  high,  bare  window  began 
to  show  against  the  dim  light  from  the  sky,  she  gave  herself  up 
to  despair. 

"  Where's  the  use  o'  prayin'  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  am  too  wicked 
to  die,  or  else  God  has  forgotten  me." 

The  Sister  fell  on  her  knees,  praying  for  pardon  of  the  awful 


words ;  half  hoping,  half  fearing  that  they  were  the  last  that 
poor  sinner  might  utter.  But  the  time  went  on,  the  light 
strengthened,  and  the  pale  Figure,  though  it  hovered  near, 
seemed  uncertain  whether  or  not  to  stay. 

But  the  Angel  of  Death  passed  over  St.  Saviour's  Home 
that  night,  and  the  Angel  of  Life,  passing  in  instead,  breathed 
its  divine  essence  into  a  little  male  child — whom  it  is  true 
that  nobody  wanted,  not  even  the  worn-out  mother,  who,  upon 
that  day,  completed  her  seventeenth  year. 

A  neighbouring  clock  was  striking  seven  when  the  Matron 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Netherwood's  room. 

"It  is  useless  to  keep  you  longer,"  she  said;  "the  girl 
will  live,  but  she  is  prostrate,  and  incapable  of  understanding 
anything  that  is  said  to  her." 

"  And  the  child  ?  " 

"  Will  live  too.  Both  will  be  sure  to  do  well.  It  is  only 
your  mother  and  child  of  value  who  die." 

"  I  should  Hke  to  see  the  child.  It  has  a  life  to  live,  which 
it  may  not  live  to  itself.     Therefore  it  ts  of  value,  surely  ?  " 

"  To  you,  perhaps,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile.  "  It  is  in 
my  room  with  the  woman  Lucas.     Will  you  go  up  ?  " 

He  mounted  the  stairs,  went  along  the  matted  passage  to  a 
room  at  the  end,  and  paused  at  the  half-open  door. 

It  looked  grey  in  the  early  morning,  and  even  a  glowing  fire 
failed  to  make  it  home  like  or  comfortable.  In  a  chair,  with 
her  back  to  the  door,  sat  Kate  Lucas,  crooning  pitifully  over 
the  little  bundle  on  her  knees.  She  had  not  heard  anyone 
approach,  and  commenced  to  talk  to  the  poor  baby  bitterly  : 

"  Poor  mite,  that  nobody  wants  !  You  will  only  be  a  burden 
for  her  to  carry  all  through  her  life,  and  one  that  everybody 
will  take  good  care  she  shall  never  Aide.  What  a  pity  you 
didn't  die !  One  good  thing — you're  a  boy,  so  life  can  never  be 
as  hard  on  you  as  it  is  on  us.  I  wonder  where  the  man  is 
whose  photograph  I  took  out  of  your  mother's  poor  wet  dress 
to-night.  I  wonder  whether  he'd  care  if  he  knew  that  she  was 
found  under  a  dripping  wall,  more  dead  than  alive,  and  that 
her  neck  was  black  and  blue  where  she'd  taken  it  between  her 
hands  and  tried  to  strangle  herself!  Not  he!  Why  should 
he  ?  Who's  to  prove  that  it  was  any  of  Ais  doing  ?  It  isn't 
right — we  all,  and  they  nothing ;  it  isn't  right.  There's  justice 
for  a  man  in  this  world,  and  mercy ;  but  if  there's  either  for  a 
woman,  I've  never  seen  it." 


loo  annte  Bcane 

She  laughed  dismally,  then  caught  the  little  bundle  up  in 
her  arms  and  turned  to  pace  the  room  with  it,  facing  Mr. 
Netherwood  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  didn't  hear  you,  sir." 

"  No?  I  htsLidyou,  instead.  You  were  saying  some  terrible 
things,  which  would  have  been  more  terrible  had  they  been 
true." 

"  They  are  true,  sir.  I'm  not  saying  that  I  am  the  one  to 
say  what's  right  and  what's  wrong ;  but  the  difference  between 
the  sin  of  a  man  and  the  sin  of  a  woman  is  a  crying  injustice, 
sir,  and  keeps  many  a  woman  down  who  would  like  to  get  on 
her  feet  again.  Oh  !  I'm  not  talking  of  the  like  of  mg ;  I  am 
talking  of  such  as  that  poor  thing  we  found  last  night ! " 

"  Of  her  particular  case  I  know  nothing,  but  of  one  thing  I 
am  certain :  whatever  difference  men  may  choose  to  make 
between  the  sin  of  a  man  and  the  sin  of  a  woman,  morally  and 
before  God  there  is  none  !  As  it  is  in  her  case,  so  it  is  in  his ; 
as  she  must  answer  for  it,  so  must  he." 

"  Then  it  is  in  the  next  world,  sir ;  for  as  far  as  I  can  see,  he 
goes  scot  free  through  this." 

"  I  say — never  I  What  a  man  sows,  that  shall  he  also 
reap." 

"  Ah  !  that  sounds  all  right,  sir  ;  but  asking  your  pardon  for 
talking  so  to  you,  I  don't  think  there's  much  in  it,  and  I  don't 
think  it  has  ever  stood  in  the  way  of  a  man  sowing  what  he 
thought  he  would.  A  man  can  turn  good  before  his  reaping- 
time  comes.  When  he's  quite  tired  of  doing  what's  wrong,  he 
can  turn  round  and  say,  '  Now  I  am  going  to  be  respectable,' 
and  everybody  thinks  it  is  all  right ;  but  let  the  woman  who 
has  made  one  slip  turn  round  and  say  that  she  is  going  to 
be  respectable !  Every  man  laughs,  and  every  w^oman  says, 
•  That  you  don't,  if  /  know  it ! '  Ali !  don't  talk  to  me  to- 
night, sir ;  an  angel  from  Heaven  couldn't  make  me  anything 
but  bitter." 

"  And  yet  what  would  be  impossible  to  the  angel  is  quite  an 
easy  matter  to  this  child." 

Kate  was  pacing  the  room,  with  the  baby's  face  held  against 
her  own.  She  stopped,  not  comprehending,  then  suddenly 
grasping  his  meaning,  she  smiled. 

"  Ah,  well,  sir,  what  does  it  know  of  bitterness  yet  ?  And 
who  could  be  harsh  to  the  poor  little  mite  ?     God  bless  it ! " 

She  caught  herself  up  as  the  words  left  her  lips,  startled  by 
them,  ashamed  of  them. 

Mr.  Netherwood  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 


**6oD  Bless  3tr  loi 

"You  see  you,  too,  believe;  you,  too,  think  there  is  some 
good  in  the  blessing  of  God  !  You  say  He  is  deaf  and  blind 
to  the  working  of  evil,  and  to  the  suffering  of  the  creatures  He 
has  sent  upon  the  earth  !  According  to  you  He  is  cruel,  callous, 
unjust,  unmoved  by  pity,  insensible  to  prayer ;  and  yet,  when 
you  wish  to  invoke  some  good  thing  upon  the  life  of  this  little 
child,  the  best  even  you  can  say  is,  *  God  bless  it ! ' " 

She  thought  a  moment,  while  the  expression  of  her  face 
changed. 

"That  is  true,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh;  "as  you  put  a 
thing  it  always  comes  home  to  me.  But  we  won't  start  the 
baby  with  my  blessing.     It  isn't  good  enough,  by  a  long  way  !  * 

She  held  the  child  out  to  him  with  some  little  hesitation. 
Without  any  hesitation,  he  took  it,  then,  uncovering  the  tiny 
face,  he  looked  at  it  kindly  by  the  strengthening  light  of  the 
coming  day. 

"  May  the  God  to  whom  our  light  is  darkness;  our  knowledge, 
ignorance ;  our  reasoning  too  pitiful  for  anger,  bless  thee  ! 
May  the  God  of  the  fatherless  be  a  Father  to  thee,  the  Friend 
of  the  friendless  walk  side  by  side  with  thee  as  far  as  thou  hast 
to  go  !  Being  born  to  what  men  call  '  evil,'  mayst  thou  hold 
to  that  which  is  good  ;  being  born  to  nothing,  mayst  thou 
have  what  is  better  than  all !  So  shall  the  shadow  of  the  sin 
of  thy  birth  prove  to  be  but  the  shelter  of  God's  outspread 
wing." 

He  kissed  the  child,  and  gave  it  again  into  the  woman's 
arms. 

And  thus,  with  two  widely  different  blessings,  from  two  widely 
different  people,  Annie  Deane's  little  son  began  life. 


C 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"what  is  this  place? * 

For  many  days  the  rescued  girl  lay  almost  as  silent  as  the  dead, 
neither  remembering  the  past  nor  caring  about  the  future — lay 
in  a  state  of  mental  and  physical  restfulness  which  was  neither 
apathy  nor  content,  but  something  between.  Unable  to  nurse 
her  baby,  she  did  not  feel  that  immediate  interest  in  it  which 
a  nursing  mother  feels.  When  the  baby  was  taken  from  her 
side,  her  dull  eyes  followed  it ;  when  it  was  brought  back,  a 
slight — very  slight — change  of  expression  would  show  that  she 
knew  it  was  there.  But,  after  a  while,  she  began  to  feebly 
grope  about  until  she  felt  the  tiny  doubled-up  fingers,  began  to 
try  to  raise  her  head  in  answer  to  a  sudden  cry ;  but  when  Kate 
or  one  of  the  Sisters  came  near,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall, 
and  stared  at  it  with  eyes  that  were  racant  and  dull. 

The  Sisters  were  extremely  patient.  Acting  under  medical 
orders,  they  made  no  attempt  to  rouse  the  girl  to  interest  or 
animation,  which,  said  the  doctor,  would  come  in  time.  He 
was  right.  Annie  began  presently  to  notice  if  the  baby's  place 
were  vacant,  to  stretch  her  arm  that  the  child  might  lie  on  it, 
to  draw  the  little  breathing  body  nearer  and  to  touch  the 
velvet  head  with  her  cheek.  Kate  was  the  first  to  witness  the 
stealthy  actions.     She  went  to  the  girl's  side. 

"  He's  a  dear  little  boy  ! "  said  she  cheerfully. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  followed  by  a  question  spoken 
feebly. 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"  A  fortnight  yesterday." 

Annie  said  no  more  then,  but  much  later  in  the  day  asked 
in  a  stronger  voice  : 

"  Who've  got  my  things  ?  " 

"The  Matron,"  answered  Kate,  "  but  I  undressed  you,  and  I 
found  some  money,  I  have  that  until  you're  able  to  take  care 
of  it  yourself." 

"There  was  something  with  the  money." 

••  Yes,  a  photograph ;  I've  got  that  too." 

I02 


'*  Mbat  is  tbts  (Mace  ? "  103 

Annie  said  no  more. 

"  Are  you  pleased  the  baby  is  a  boy  ?  " 

She  considered,  and  presently  said  that  she  thought  it  was 
**  a  good  thing." 

"  Why  ?  "  Kate  asked  gently. 

"  Boys  don't  have  so  much  to  bear  as  girls  do." 

"  No,  and  he  will  be  quicker  off  your  hands." 

As  the  days  passed  the  current  of  her  life  began  to  quicken. 
Memory  came  back  to  her,  and  with  it  interest;  interest 
brought  the  desire  for  speech,  and  such  desire  kindled  the 
power  to  gratify  it.  When  the  baby  was  three  weeks  old  the 
mother  was  a  responsible  being,  strong  enough  to  note  what 
was  passing  about  her,  and  to  show  signs  of  gratitude  to  those 
who  tended  her.  It  was  not  until  she  was  able  to  sit  up  for 
a  few  hours  during  the  day  that  the  Matron  attempted  to 
question  her. 

**  Your  name  is  Deane,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am — Annie  Deane." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something  of  your  history.  We 
wish  to  befriend  you.  The  first  thing  is  to  know  where  you 
come  from,  that  we  may  communicate  with  your  friends." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  don't  want  that  done." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't,  ma'am ;  and,  please,  I  won't  have  it  done  if  I  can 
help  it." 

"  But  I  must  know  why." 

"  My  father  an'  mother  haven't  got  no  room  for  me.  I  done 
what  wus  wrong,  an'  I  had  to  go  away.     I  can't  go  back." 

"  Did  you  run  away  from  home  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  To  avoid  your  parents'  anger  ?  " 

Annie  hesitated. 

'•  You  were  afraid  they  would  find  something  out?" 

"  They'd  found  it  out,  ma'am." 

"And  were  terribly  angry,  I  suppose?  They  had  a  right 
to  be  so." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  You  ought  not  to  resent  their  being  so." 

"  I  don't,  ma'am." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  led  you  into  this  terrible  sin  ?  " 

She  whitened,  but  said  deliberately  :  "  No^  ma'am." 

"  You  mean  you  won't  ?  " 

"Please,  ma'am,  I  won't." 

The  Matron  flushed. 


I04  Himie  2)eane 

"But  you  owe  us  some  confidence.  We  have  not  asked 
you  a  single  question,  though  you  have  been  here  nearly  a 
month.  Now  that  you  are  getting  stronger  we  shall  have  to  go 
thoroughly  into  your  case.  You  will  be  able  to  leave  us  in  a 
short  time,  and  this  raises  the  question — Where  will  you  go  ? 
Taking  your  youth  into  consideration,  we  should  naturally 
decide  upon  restoring  you  to  your  friends." 

"  I  can't  go  back,  ma'am." 

*'  But  it  is  your  better  plan,  and  your  duty  besides.  If  your 
friends  refuse  to  receive  you,  then  we  will  take  the  responsibility 
of  finding  you  a  suitable  situation.  But  we  must  first  see 
whether  they  do  refuse." 

Annie  made  no  answer,  only  looked  very  white  and  shaky. 
Seeing  which,  the  Matron  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further. 
On  the  next  day,  however,  she  returned  to  it  with  greater  firm- 
ness, but  was  met  with  equal  firmness  on  the  part  of  the  girl, 
who  had  evidently  been  preparing  her  defence. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  she  said  respectfjUy,  "  I've  left 
home  for  good.  I  can't  tell  you  where  to  find  my  mother  an' 
father.  If  you  found  'em,  they'd  on'y  say  as  I  must  get  my 
own  livin'  in  service  ;  an'  if  I  haves  to  do  that,  where's  the  use 
o'  troublin'  them  ?  I  don't  want  them  to  know  what  I've  bin 
through  ;  they'd  make  a  talk  about  me  in  the  village,  an'  that 
I  wouldn't  like." 

"Which  is  beside  the  question,  and  nothing  to  do  with  us. 
We  cannot  permit  your  private  dislikes  to  interfere  with  our 
duty.  There  will  be  much  that  you  will  not  like,  but  you  must 
face  the  fact  that  you  deserve  blame,  and  you  must  bear  it  with 
all  the  patience  that  time  and  prayer  will  bring  you." 

Annie's  answer  was  unfortunate. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  but  I  canH  see  as  it  could  do  any  good  to  go 
home.  I've  done  with  'em  all  at  home,  and  they've  done  wi' 
me.  I  shan't  never  ast  them  to  help  me ;  they've  got  enough 
to  do  to  help  theirselves." 

"  Were  they  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  You  had  a  happy  home  ?  " 

Annie  smiled,  wondering  what  this  severe  lady  would  call  a 
"  happy  home."  She  thought  of  the  tiny  cottage,  of  the  bread 
— not  always  buttered — which  made  up  three  meals  out  of  the 
four ;  of  the  bit  of  greasy  bacon  which  so  often  did  duty  for  the 
fourth ;  of  the  hard  little  bed  on  the  floor  from  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  rise  so  very  early ;  of  the  incessant  wants 
and  wailings  of  the  ever-recurring  babies;   of  the  incessant 


"  mbat  is  tbis  plncc  ? "  105 

"  clucking "  of  the  mother-voice,  rendered  shrill  by  the  cease- 
less round  of  petty  cares  which  will  turn  the  gentlest  woman 
alive  into  a  shrew. 

The  memory  of  it  all  swept  over  Annie  and  carried  her 
back  to  the  Berkshire  village,  to  her  unchildish  childhood, 
which  those  lurid-golden  days  in  the  pine-wood  had  ended  so 
abruptly.  The  Matron's  question  went  unanswered,  while  the 
girl's  dulled  memory  woke  and  quivered  painfully. 

"  Were  you  happy  at  home  ? "  repeated  the  inquisitorial 
voice. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  led  a  happy  life  with  kind  parents,  and  yet  you 
fell  into  temptation.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  this 
happened  ?  " 

"  I  can'f  tell  you,  ma'am." 

The  answer  ruffled  the  Matron. 

"  I  dislike  throwing  benefits  in  the  teeth  of  those  who  have 
received  them,"  she  said ;  "  but  as  they  are  not  my  benefits,  I 
must  speak  of  them.  Do  you  realise  how  much  has  been  done 
for  you  by  the  officials  of  this  Home  ?  Do  you  know  that  you 
were  brought  here  in  a  dying  condition  ?  " 

"  I  scarce  recollect  comin'  here,  ma'am." 

"  But  you  must  have  known  since.  Your  life  hung  upon  a 
thread.  But  for  perfect  medical  aid  and  devoted  nursing  it 
could  not  have  been  saved.  No  lady  could  have  been  more 
tenderly  cared  for  than  you  have  been  here." 

"  It's  been  very  good  of  you  all,"  said  Annie  humbly. 

Now  this  might  be  humility,  but  it  was  not  gratitude,  and 
gratitude  was  what  the  Matron  wanted  to  see. 

"  You  have  been  here  nearly  a  month,"  she  said,  "  you 
and  your  child,  and  you  have  taken  it  all  as  a  matter  of 
course.  In  the  ordinary  way,  a  girl  of  your  class  would  have 
been  at  work  again  by  this  time,  but  you  have  not  even  tried 
to  rouse  yourself  to  the  extent  of  considering  what  you  are 
going  to  do ;  so  now  we  must  consider  this  for  you.  Of 
course,  we  cannot  claim  gratitude,  but  I  think  we  have  a  right  to 
some  information  respecting  you  and  your  past  history." 

The  girl  was  roused ;  she  sat  up  and  spoke  with  some  energy. 

"If  you  thinks  I'm  ungrateful,  ma'am,  you're  wrong.  I 
can't  say  a  lot,  but  I'm  sure  it  do  seem  wonderful  to  me  that 
I  should  be  in  a  place  like  this,  with  gentry  lookin'  after  me. 
But  it's  on'y  the  last  few  days  as  I've  had  the  heart  to  look 
about  me.  As  to  work,  ma'am,  I'll  do  anything  you  thinks  I 
can  do,  and  be  glad  to  do  it." 


io6  aniife  'Beam 

"  That  is  not  what  I  mean,"  said  the  Matron  hastily.  "  I 
am  not  saying  that  you  are  fit  to  work  at  present  I  am  asking 
for  a  little  confidence  in  return  for  our  attention." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  had  some  money  when  I  come  here,  an' 
the  young  woman  Kate,  she's  got  it.  I've  got  four  pound. 
Wouldn't  that  pay  for  me  ?  " 

The  Matron  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  It  is  a  lot  of  money  for  a  girl  like  you  to  have.  How  did 
you  come  by  it  ?  " 

"  It  wus  give  to  me,  ma'am." 

"  Who  gave  it  you  ?  " 

"  It  wus  give  to  me,  but  I  can't  tell  you  no  more." 

"  How  long  have  you  had  it  ?  " 

"  Since  last  August,  ma'am." 

The  Matron  understood,  and  flushed  with  righteous  anger. 

*'  I  am  afraid  you  fail  to  understand  the  meaning  of  •  imper- 
tinence.' I  must  talk  to  the  others  about  you.  If  you  will  not 
answer  me,  perhaps  someone  else  will  meet  with  more  success," 
saying  which  she  picked  up  her  work  and  left  the  room. 

Annie  sat  and  cried.  She  had  honestly  meant  the  money  to 
pay  her  expenses,  but  had  not  thought  it  would  be  necessary  to 
disclose  her  private  affairs,  nor  did  she  mean  to  disclose  them. 

This  reticence  made  her  enemies,  as  it  had  done  before. 
The  Matron  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  her,  and  was  at  no 
pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  The  Sisters  drew  her  grievous 
pictures  of  her  mother's  agony  of  mind  concerning  her.  Kate, 
arrayed  now  in  the  sombre  uniform  of  the  Home,  advised  her 
stealthily  to  tell  the  Matron  just  enough  to  keep  her  from 
"harping  about  it;"  but  Annie  held  her  peace,  and  saw  all 
sympathy  drift  away  from  her. 

When  the  time  came  for  her  to  join  the  other  inmates  of  the 
Home,  something  rose  within  her  like  a  great  wave  of  aversion 
and  resistance.  All  Mrs.  Fryer's  hints  and  allusions  to  her 
stained  character  took  definite  shape.  She  shrank  from  the 
inmates  in  uniform.  Out  of  place  as  she  had  felt  among  the 
saintly  nursing  Sisters,  she  felt  still  more  so  here.  She  had 
avoided  asking  questions,  but  now  she  watched  her  opportunity 
and  spoke  to  Kate. 

"  What  is  this  place  ?  "  she  said  steadily. 

Kate  shifted  her  eyes  from  Annie's,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  What  is  this  place  ?  "  repeated  the  girl,  more  steadily  stilL 

•*  St.  Saviour's  Home.'" 

«♦  Home  for  who  ?  " 

"  For  such  as  you  and  me." 


"Mbatis  tbtsfJlace?"  107 

"  What  are  you  ?  * 

Kate  was  dumb. 

"  What  are  you  ?  I  know  what  I  am,  but  there's  somethink 
about  you  others  I  can't  make  out." 

"  Well,"  said  Kate  hardly — "  well,  then,  if  you  know,  answer 
me  first  and  tell  me  what  >'£>«  are." 

Annie  considered,  trying  to  answer  truthfully. 

"I'm  a  girl  that's  done  what  she  shouldn't  do,  that's  made 
one  great  mistake,  and  is  very  sorry  for  it." 

Kate  was  getting  harder. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  we're  women  who  have  made  a  score  of 
such  mistakes,  and  are  not  sorry  for  it — that's  the  difference." 

Annie  sat  down.     She  was  still  weak  and  easily  excited. 

"  That  is  a  difference  ! "  said  she  piteously. 

"  I  daresay  to  your  way  of  thinking  just  now  it  is,  but  to 
most  people's  way  of  thinking  we're  equal.  One  such  mistake 
as  ours,  or  a  dozen — it  is  all  the  same.  They  herd  us  together 
and  ticket  us  alike." 

"  That  isn't  fair." 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  don't  sour  me,  Annie ;  don't  make  an 
enemy  of  me,  for  I  like  you,  and  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  sorry  for  me.  If  what  you  says  is 
true,  you'd  better  be  sorry  for  yourself." 

"  Too  late  in  the  day  for  that,  so  I  can  afford  to  be  sorry  for 
you." 

Annie  was  touched. 

"I  don't  ast  no  questions,"  she  said,  "becos'  I  haven't 
answered  none;  but  did  you  ever  make  a  mistake  like  I've 
made  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  was  left  with  a  baby  to  keep  ?  " 

«'  No." 

"  Then  how  come  you — " 

She  stopped,  puzzled  how  to  convey  what  she  meant. 
(p  "  Never  mind  me,"  Kate  said  briskly ;  "  I  shan't  make  you 

any  wiser  than  you  are." 

"  But  I  can't  make  it  out.  I  can  understand  it  for  once, 
but  to  talk  o'  makin'  a  mistake  like  this — again  1  I  can't 
understand  that,  nohow." 

"  You  will  understand  fast  enough,  or  you  will  be  very  lucky, 
unless — unless — " 

She  laughed  bitterly,  and  stopped. 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Unless  you  can  swallow  their  doctrine  of  eternal  damnation. 


io8  Bnnie  H)canc 

Then  you  can  enjoy  the  blessed  privilege  of  hard  work  for  the 
rest  of  your  life,  with  the  Bible  for  consolation." 

"  I've  worked  hard  ever  since  I  was  a  child.  I  don't  mind 
that." 

"  Then  perhaps  you'll  keep  afloat.  I  hate  hard  work.  I 
always  did." 

"  Ah,  but  you've  bin  brought  up  better  than  me  ;  you  speaks 
better." 

"  That  is  only  the  difference  between  town  and  country.  I 
went  into  service  young  as  under-maid  to  some  young  ladies. 
I  think  I  picked  up  their  way  of  speaking,  and  it  has  stuck  to 
me  ever  since.  Also,  I  picked  up  their  notion  of  getting 
through  life  as  easy  as  possible ;  their  liking  for  dress  and 
pleasure,  and  lying  in  bed  late,  and  leaving  all  the  trouble  to 
whoever  was  unlucky  enough  to  have  to  take  it  on.  My  !  what 
a  selfish  lot  they  were  I  Good-natured  and  pleasant  enough  in 
their  way,  but  bad  teachers  for  a  girl  who  wasn't  too  steady  at 
best.  It's  dress  and  laziness  that  ruin  girls,  Annie.  It's  only 
here  and  there  that  one's  ruined  by  what  they  call  love  ! " 

"  Well,  I'm  not  lazy,  an'  I've  never  had  no  dress  but  mother's 
old  ones,  cut  shorter  in  the  skirt,  an'  took  in  in  the  body  to 
make  'em  fit." 

"  A  town  girl  wouldn't  stand  that.  I  think  you  had  better 
go  back  to  where  you  came  from.  Here  you  will  be  finding 
out  that  you  are  what's  known  as  *  pretty.' " 

*'  Oh !  "  the  touch  of  flattery  drew  her  out  at  once,  "  he  said 
I  was  pretty ! " 

Kate  laughed. 

"  Of  course  '  he '  did.  You  mean  the  man  in  the  photograph  ? 
Come,  now,  he  was  no  plough  hand,  no  farm  labourer?  He 
was  a  gentleman,  /know  !  " 

Annie  shut  her  mouth  in  a  tight  line. 

"  And  he  wasn't  short  of  money  1  " 

The  girl  said  nothing. 

"  I  say,  Annie,  I'll  never  tell  a  soul,  but — who  was  he  ?  " 

•'  I  don't  know." 

*'  My  word  I  that's  a  good  joke  !     Do  you  mean — " 

"  I  means  to  say  nothink  about  'im,  neither  to  you  noi  to 
nobody  else." 

"  That's  straight ! "  said  Kate  demurely.  "  You'll  see  him 
again?" 

Annie  made  no  response,  only  said  that  she  thought  it 
"  time  to  go  down."  As  they  went  downstairs,  they  met  the 
Matron  going  up. 


**mMt  is  tbis  place?"  109 

**  Annie  Deane,"  she  said,  "  come  into  my  room." 

Annie  turned  and  followed  her  up. 

*'  Will  you  close  the  door  ?  Thank  you.  I  have  noticed 
that  you  are  very  friendly  with  Kate  Lucas." 

"  I  didn't  think  I  was  friendly  with  anybody,  ma'am." 

"  That  is  rather  an  impertinent  answer.  I  am  willing  to 
believe  that  you  did  not  mean  it  so ;  still,  anything  approach- 
ing self-assertion  in  a  girl  like  you  prejudices  people  against 
you.  I  would  advise  you  to  guard  against  it.  As  I  said 
before,  you  are  friendly  with  the  girl  Lucas." 

Annie  did  not  reply. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  knew  nothing  of  her  before  you  came 
here  ?  " 

"  She've  bin  in  London  all  her  life,  ma'am,  an'  I  never  see 
London  till  I  come  into  it  that  day  they  brought  me  here.  So 
I  couldn't  have  knowed  her,  could  I  ?  " 

"You  might  have  answered  me  straightforwardly,  with  a 
*  Yes '  or  '  No.'  Do  you  know  that  she  is  unlikely  to  do  you 
any  good  ?  " 

Annie  thought  she  saw  a  chance  of  saying  the  right  thing. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  I  did  think  that 
myself ! " 

The  Matron  raised  her  brows. 

"That  is  scarcely  what  I  mean.  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  set  yourself  above  your  companions.  I  simply  wished 
to  say  that  there  are  others  who  would  be  safer  confidantes 
for  you." 

Annie  felt  rebuffed. 

"  There  are  girls  in  the  house  who  are  sincerely  repentant, 
who  are  striving  to  get  back  into  the  right  path.  They  might 
be  of  some  use  to  you,  but  in  Kate  Lucas  I  have  little  faith." 

Annie  felt  so  sure  now  of  saying  the  wrong  thing  that  she 
was  nervous. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I'd  sooner  not  know  anybody  as  is 
here.  How  will  I  set  abuut  gettin'  some  place  o'  service  ?  I 
think  I'm  fit  now." 

The  Matron  looked  as  if  the  girl  irritated  her,  as  indeed 
she  did. 

"The  truth  is,  we  do  not  know  how  to  deal  with  you,"  she 
said.  "It  is  our  custom  to  study  the  past  fife  of  our  girls, 
with  a  view  to  understanding  their  requirements.  But  you 
have  given  us  no  opportunity  of  serving  you  in  this  way.  You 
have  your  health  and  strength  restored  to  you,  and  now  you 
wish  to  walk  out  of  the  house  as  much  a  stranger  to  us  as  when 


no  annfc  2)eane 

you  came.  You  either  do  not  understand  things,  or  you  are 
more  deficient  in  the  sense  of  gratitude  than  any  girl  I  have 
had  through  my  hands." 

The  tears  found  their  way  into  Annie's  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,"  she  said.  "  It's  on'y  that  I've  bin 
reck'nin'  to  pay  ;  an'  now  I  finds  I  can't,  I  don't  know  what  to 
say." 

The  Matron's  colour  deepened. 

**  Evidently  you  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  "  or  you  would 
not  talk  of  payment.  I  don't  know  of  anything  which  has  so 
repelled  me  as  the  glib  manner  in  which  you  talk  of  that  terrible 
money !  I  should  have  thought  better  of  you  had  you  been  as 
reticent  concerning  it  as  you  have  been  concerning  your  past 
life.  I  suppose  the  only  thing  is  to  find  you  a  situation. 
What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  Anythi  ik,  ma'am,  as  is  work.  I  can  wash,  an'  scrub,  an' 
cook,  an'  mend ;  an'  mother,  she  says  as  I'm  a  rare  good  ironer ; 
an'  as  to  children,  I  can  do  any  think  for  they." 

The  Matron  shook  her  head. 

•'  I  am  afraid  your  knowledge  there  will  be  of  little  use.  I 
could  not  recommend  you  for  the  care  of  good-class  children ; 
you  speak  so  badly.  There  is  nothing  open  to  you  but  general 
service." 

"  What's  that,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  You  will  have  to  go  as  *  maid-of-all-work.'  As  a  rule,  I  set 
my  face  against  this  class  of  situation  for  our  girls  ;  but  if  you 
will  not  let  me  assist  you  to  anything  better,  I  must  give  way. 
If  you  stay  here  for  six  months  I  shall  know  no  more  of  you 
than  I  do  now,  so  perhaps  we  had  better  find  you  a  place  at 
once.     You  may  go  down." 

On  the  following  day  Annie  was  sent  into  the  laundry, 
where  she  had  a  certain  amount  of  work  given  out  to  her. 
She  got  through  this  with  credit,  and  was  afterwards  pointed 
out  to  the  Matron  as  one  of  whom  good  work  might  be 
expected  later  on. 

Kate  Lucas  happened  to  hear  of  this.  She  managed  to 
sidle  up  to  Annie. 

"They  will  give  you  the  chance  of  staying  on,"  she 
whispered  hurriedly.  "Good  ironers  are  scarce.  But  don't 
stay.  You'll  do  better  away.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  if  I 
can  get  the  chance,  but  they  are  keeping  you  out  of  my  way." 

Here  the  woman  in  charge  came  up. 

"There's  a  van-load  just  in,"  she  said.  "You  two  might 
go  and  sort  it  out." 


"  Mbat  is  tbf s  place  ? "  1 1 1 

Annie  followed  Kate,  who  set  to  work  on  a  heap  of  linen, 
talking  rapidly  as  she  worked. 

"  Listen  to  me,  for  I  shan't  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  you 
again,  perhaps.  Some  time  ago  I  lived  in  a  square  off  the 
Camden  Road  as  general  servant.  I  didn't  stop  long,  but  it 
has  come  into  my  mind  that  that  place  would  suit  you  until 
you're  fit  for  something  better.  You  might  learn  a  lot  from 
the  old  lady.  She  doesn't  do  much  herself,  but  she'll  potter 
about  and  show  you  how  to  do  things.  She's  strict,  but  that 
won't  matter  if  you  mean  to  go  straight.  I've  had  her  on  my 
mind  these  two  or  three  days,  and  to-night,  if  I  can  get  out, 
I'll  go  and  tell  her  all  about  you." 

"  But  perhaps  she  don't  want  a  servant" 

"  I'm  going  to  see.  Anyway,  don't  stop  here.  You'll  learn 
more  harm  among  the  girls  than  you'll  learn  good  off  the 
Sisters — " 

Here  the  Matron,  passing  the  open  door,  paused  and  entered 
the  room. 

"  One  can  manage  this  sorting,"  she  said,  "  and  Annie 
Deane  may  cease  work  for  to-day." 

After  which  she  stood  and  waited  for  Annie  to  follow  her 
out. 

Kate  laughed  to  herself. 

**  All  right,"  said  she  dryly,  "  you  are  a  very  good  woman  in 
your  own  estimation ;  but  as  for  Annie  Deane,  I  shall  do  her 
more  good  than  you  will.     Anyway,  I  can  try." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
'•one  of  the  hopeless  sort" 

Kate  did  try.  After  working  hours  she  applied  for  leave 
to  go  out,  which  was  granted,  providing  that  she  chose  to 
accept  the  companionship  of  one  of  the  Sisters.  She  smiled, 
but  submitted,  remaining  silent  as  to  the  nature  of  her  errand, 
and  puzzling  the  good  Sister  by  walking  so  far  and  so  fast. 

Arriving  at  the  house  she  wanted,  she  hesitated. 

"  Must  you  go  in  with  me  ?  "  she  said  to  Sister  Ruth. 

"  I  am  supposed  to  do  so,"  was  the  timid  answer ;  "  but  I 
wiil  wait.  I  am  sure  I  can  trust  you  not  to  get  me  into  any 
trouble.     You  know  that  1  am  new  to  my  work." 

Kate  nodded,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Holt  at  home  ?  "  said  she  to  the  servant  who  opened 
the  door. 

"  Yes." 

"Can  I  see  her?" 

"  Who  shall  I  say  it  is  ?  " 

Kate  hesitated. 
"  Oh,  tell  her  somebody  from  St.  Saviour's  Home." 

The  girl  pushed  open  the  drawing-room  door,  and  Kate 
walked  in,  looking  round  at  the  once  familiar  objects  with  a 
smile. 

*'  Who'd  have  thought  I  should  ever  have  seen  the  inside  of 
this  house  again,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Here  she  comes,  with 
the  same  little  patter  along  the  hall,  and  the  same  rustle  of  the 
old  black  silk." 

•'  A  light  here,  please^  Emma,"  said  a  brisk  voice  outside. 

*'  Emma,"  mused  Kate,  "  /  was  Emma.  I  wonder  she 
doesn't  change  the  name  for  luck." 

She  drew  back  behind  the  door  as  an  old  lady  entered, 
followed  by  a  girl  with  a  lighted  taper.  A  pr.tty  old  lady, 
small,  plump,  pink  of  face,  and  with  a  bright  youthfulness  of 
eye — an  old  lady  who  might  have  stepped  out  of  a  picture, 
snowy-frillf'd  fichu,  black  satin  cap-strings,  big  paste  waist- 
buckle,  and  all. 

xia 


**Qnc  of  tbe  Ibopeless  Sort"  113 

While  her  servant  lit  the  gas,  she  turned  herself  about  to  find 
her  visitor. 

"  Oh !  pray  don't  sit  there  behind  the  door,"  she  said ;  "  you 
are  in  the  draught  of  the  crack.     Come  and  sit — " 

Here  she  paused,  lifted  two  fat  little  hands  as  if  to  ward  off 
an  imaginary  horrf>r,  and  cried  : 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  how  cou/d  you  ?  Oh,  how  very  dreadful  of 
you  !     How  very  dreadful,  Emma  !     It  is,  it  is,  indeed  ! " 

"  Please  'm,"  said  the  startled  taper-bearer,  "  what  have  I 
done?" 

"You?  Nothing.  I  don't  mean  you,"  said  the  old  lady, 
trotting  over  to  a  big  chair  and  sitting  down  in  it.  "  Go  away ; 
don't  say  anything  to  Mr.  Holt.  Shut  the  door,  and  don't 
listen  outside." 

When  the  door  had  been  shut  with  an  indignant  bang,  Kate 
stood  up. 

"How  cou/d  you?"  the  little  old  lady  burst  out  afresh, 
pattmg  the  arms  of  her  chair  in  great  excitement.  "To  think 
of  you  having  the — the  dreadful  effrontery  to  enter  this  house, 
to  stand  there  looking  me  in  the  face !  I  wonder  the  ceiling 
does  not  fall  in !  I  wonder  the  floor  does  not  give  way  !  If  I 
tell  Mr.  Holt  that  you  have  been  here  he  won't  believe  me." 

"  If  you  will  let  me,  ma'am,"  said  Kate  quietly,  "  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  came  about.     It  wasn't  for  myself." 

"  I  should  think  not.  It  would  be  useless.  Even  if  I 
wanted  a  servant  ever  so  badly  (as  I  do),  and  Mr.  Holt  were 
ever  so  anxious  to  see  me  suited  (as  he  is),  I  should  never  be 
able  to  persuade  him  to  let  me  try  you  again.  He  is  so  very 
firm !  You  must  remember,  Emma,  how  impossible  it  is  to 
move  Mr.  Holt  when  once  he  has  made  up  his  mind." 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  but  as  I  said  just  now,  I  am  not  come  on  my 
own  account  at  all." 

The  old  lady  trotted  over  to  another  chair. 

"Make  haste  and  say  what  you  have  come  about^  then. 
This  is  extraordinary  !  Only  this  morning  I  said  to  Mr.  Holt, 
*  I  am  sure  I  am  going  to  see  someone  I  have  not  seen  for  a 
long  time.'  I  had  that  feeling.  And  we  were  wondering 
whom  it  could  be.     I  thought  it  must  be  Georgie." 

"  Did  you  say  that  you  were  wanting  a  servant,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I  do  want  one  badly,  But  you  know,  Emma,  I  did  say 
when  you  left  (not  that  I  want  to  cast  a  stone — oh,  dear,  I  don^ 
want  to  do  that !),  but  I  certainly  did  say  when  you  L  ft  that 
never,  never,  never  again  would  I  engage  a  girl  with  any — any 
fctain  upon  her  character." 

H 


114  Hnnie  Beane 

"The  girl  I  came  about  is  very  different  to  me." 

"  Is  she  above  suspicion  ?     Is  she  quite  respectable  ?  ** 

"  She  can  be  made  so,  ma'am,"  said  Kate,  "  by  anyone  who 
is  willing  to  help  her.  She's  only  seventeen,  and  now's  the 
time  to  take  her,  before  other  girls  have  got  at  her,  and  have 
told  her  what  she  doesn't  know.  I've  thought  what  a  safe 
place  this  would  be  if  I  could  get  her  here.  She'd  be  a  good 
servant  to  you — I  know  she  would,  with  a  little  showing 
how." 

"But  how  comes  she  to  be  dependent  upon  your  recommen- 
dation ?  You  know,  Emma,  how  careful  I  am  about  casting 
stones,  but  you  must  see  that  your  recommendation  is  likely 
to  do  her  more  harm  than  good." 

"  If  you'll  let  me,  ma'am,"  said  Kate  patiently,  «  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

She  did  so,  with  many  interruptive  assertions  on  the  part  of 
the  old  lady  to  the  effect  that  it  was  all  of  no  use,  and  that  she 
would  never  be  able  to  persuade  Mr.  Holt  to  receive  another 
girl  who  was  not  in  every  way  above  suspicion.  Still,  she  asked 
many  questions  concerning  Annie  Deane,  and  during  Kate's 
recital  of  the  girl's  story,  kept  up  a  running  commentary  of 
"  Poor  thing  !  "  and  "  Dear  me,  how  shocking  ! "  and  "  Oh,  to 
think  the  world  should  be  so  wicked  1 "  Really,  she  wondered 
that  Heaven  did  not  send  another  flood  and  sweep  away  the 
people  for  their  wickedness  1 

"  Of  course,"  said  Kate  in  conclusion,  "  I  can't  answer  for 
anybody's  being  genuine,  but  I  do  think  this  girl  will  repay  any 
trouble  that's  taken  for  her.  She's  not  had  her  fling  like  the 
rest  of  us  at  the  Home.  She  won't  mind  a  tight  hand  over 
her,  nor  she  won't  expect  much  liberty,  unless  the  Matron  gets 
her  into  *  good '  service,  where  the  others  will  put  her  up  to 
what  she  can  get  in  the  way  of  privileges,  if  she  likes  to  hold 
out  for  them.  She  knows  nothing  of  all  that  now  ;  she's  just 
as  much  a  child  as  her  own  poor  baby." 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  thinoj !  There  is  the  baby.  Fancy  a  girl 
of  seventeen  with  a  baby !  In  my  young  time  such  a  thing 
would  have  been  quite  a  scandal.  Now  nobody  takes  much  notice. 
There  really  ought  to  be  a  universal  Day  of  Humiliation,  like 
there  was  in  the  time  of  the  Great  Plague  !  Oh,  dear !  if  I 
attempt  to  persuade  Mr.  Holt,  I  must  suppress  the  fact  of 
there  being  a  baby." 

'*  The  Home  people  will  help  her  out  witli  that,  ma'am,  as 
long  as  she  shows  herself  deserving.  They  won't  let  the  child 
stand  in  her  way." 


**Qnc  ot  tbe  1bopeles0  Sort"  "s 

But  Mrs.  Holt  stood  in  great  fear  of  her  hiKsband,  or 
pretended  so  to  stand. 

"  I  must  tell  him  before  I  sleep  to-night,"  she  said ;  "  I  am 
sure  he  will  be  dreadfully  angry  with  me  for  promising  to  do 
anything  for  a  girl  with  such  a  dreadful  stain  on  her  character; 
but  I  should  be  glad  to  get  somebody.  I  cannot  put  up  with 
this  girl.  She  will  not  keep  her  place,  and  she  takes  liberties 
You  must  remember  how  very  firm  Mr.  Holt  is  upon  the 
subject  of  taking  liberties.  He  will  have  a  girl  in  to  her  time, 
and  he  knows  directly  if  there  is  any  fruit  gone  out  of  a  tart. 
Then  he  insists  upon  my  going  down  to  the  kitchen  when  the 
tea  is  made,  because  he  says  that  the  girls  pour  off  the  best 
cup  for  themselves." 

Kate  smiled,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  wise. 

"  Then  you'll  see  the  Matron  to-morrow,  ma'am  ?  I  hope 
you  will !  She  doesn't  understand  Annie  Deane,  and  the 
sooner  they  part  the  better." 

**  Well,  if  I  can  anyhow  persuade  Mr.  Holt,  I  will  go ;  but 
really  I  have  very  little  hope,  very  little  indeed.  Now,  tell  me 
about  yourself.  I  am  so  thankful  you  are  back  with  the  good 
Sisters—  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Kate,  **  I'm  back,  but  Sister  Ruth 
is  waiting  for  me  outside,  and  I  must  go." 

"Oh,  I  see!  Will  you  let  yourself  out,  quietly?  I  must 
steady  my  nerves  before  I  go  down  and  tell  Mr.  Holt  that  you 
have  been  here.  Whatever  will  he  say  when  I  tell  him  that  I 
have  promised  to  try  that  unfortunate  girl  ?  And  oh  !  I  do  hope 
I  shall  be  able  to  suppress  the  fact  of  there  being  a  baby." 

Kate  withdrew,  closing  the  door.  As  she  stood  for  a  second 
on  the  mat  outside  it,  the  old  wild  feeling  that  she  knew  swept 
up  and  possessed  her.  There  was  that  in  her  which  loathed 
restraint,  which  was  inimical  to  every  kind  of  authority.  Set 
up  anything  representing  Law  before  Kate,  and  an  unreasoning 
devil  in  her  did  instantly  arise  to  beat  at  it  and  sweep  it  away. 
The  Home  was  hateful  to  her  because  it  represented  Authority ; 
the  Matron  was  hateful  to  her  because  she  represented 
Authority ;  the  inmates  were  despicable  because  they  tamely 
submitted  to  be  ruled  by  petty  self-appointed  Authority.  A 
gaoler  was  still  a  gaoler  to  Kate,  gaoled  he  never  so  mercifully, 
for  she  had  the  temper  of  the  born  Anarchist,  which  will  pull 
down  the  house  of  the  Ruler,  though  the  falling  ruins  mean 
death. 

Her  way  out  lay  through  the  front  door  to  her  right,  but 
down  four  stairs  to  her  left  the  garden  door  stood  open.    She 


ii6  Bnnie  2)eane 

threw  up  her  arms  with  an  inarticulate  cry.  The  way  out! 
there  was  a  way  out,  which  did  not  lead  to  the  Home. 

"  Here  goes ! "  she  muttered,  springing  down  four  stairs  as 
lightly  as  a  cat.  "  I  can't  go  back  there.  If  there  was  any 
repentance  in  me  the  inside  of  that  place  would  kill  it  in  a 
week.  I  can't  breathe  there.  It  chokes  me.  I'm  one  of  the 
hopeless  sort,  and  Madam  the  Matron  knows  it,  so  she  came  this 
afternoon  and  marched  Annie  Deane  away  from  contamination. 
That  is  how  they  practise  the  charity  they  preach.  There's 
only  one  Christian  among  them — Netherwood.  I've  often 
thought  that  whenever  I  did  find  a  Christian  without  a  handful 
of  stones  ready  to  throw  at  the  first  sinner  who  came  along,  it 
would  be  a  man.  Christianity  is  too  hard  for  women ;  it  means 
too  much  self-control." 

She  laughed  as  she  flew  down  the  garden  path.  If  the 
garden  gate  was  locked,  she  must  turn  back.  It  was  locked, 
and  the  key  was  not  in  it.  Go  back  ?  Not  she !  She  dragged 
the  garden  seat  to  the  wall,  mounted  first  one  and  then  the 
other ;  in  one  minute  had  swung  herself  down,  in  another  was 
running  through  the  narrow  avenue  of  back  entrances  as  if  all 
the  Furies  were  after  her.  At  the  end  of  the  dreary  avenue  she 
paused,  then  stood  a  moment  to  regain  her  breath.  As  she 
did  so,  the  face  and  the  voice  of  the  "  one  Christian  "  she  had 
found  came  vividly  in  front  of  her.     She  writhed  away  from  it. 

"  Some  day,"  she  muttered,  '*  in  some  other  place,  but  not 
in  St.  Saviour's  Home.  I'd  try  (or  you — I'd  be  a  slave  to  you, 
because  you're  what  you  say  you  are,  and  not  a  white-washed 
sham  !  Well,  I've  done  Annie  Deane  a  good  turn.  I've  found 
her  a  safe  home ;  I  think  I'll  write  and  give  her  a  hint  or  two 
about  the  old  Judy  who  blames  everything  on  to  poor  old  hen- 
pecked Punch.  I've  certainly  gone  out  of  my  way  to  rescue 
Annie  Deane.  I'll  enter  that  on  the  credit  side  of  my  ledger. 
There  are  nor  many  entries  on  that  side,  and  the  debtors' 
columns  are  choke-full.  I  shall  never  balance  up  !  I  wonder 
how  long  the  poor  simple  soul  will  walk  up  and  down  the 
square?  She  will  give  a  timid  knock  presently  and  ask  if 
I'm  ready.  Poor  old  Judy  will  have  a  fit,  but  it  won't  stop 
her  from  going  to  see  Annie  tomorrow,  on  the  chance  of 
securing  a  girl  who  won't  want  to  eat  the  fruit  out  of  the  tarts, 
Dor  help  herself  to  the  tea." 


CHAPTER  XV 

**i'll  call  him  that,   or  nothing  at  all" 

It  was  Annie  Deane's  last  week  at  the  Home.  Mrs.  Holt 
had  used  her  persuasive  powers  upon  Mr.  Holt  with  excellent 
results,  and  the  girl  was  to  enter  their  service  without  delay. 
She  was  glad,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  show  it,  Kate's  dis- 
appearance had  made  things  harder  for  her.  Disliking  her 
from  the  first,  the  Matron  was  now  thoroughly  averse  to 
her,  and  would  be  glad  to  get  her  out  of  the  house,  so  that 
she  and  the  circumstances  connected  with  her  might  be 
forgotten  as  soon  as  possible. 

For  Annie  was  associated  with  another  "failure,"  and  the 
Matron  hated  failures,  because  they  made  Mr.  Netherwood 
inquisitive,  and  sent  him  probing  deeply  into  the  subject  of 
Cause  and  Effect,  with  the  former  of  which  there  was  never 
any  telling  who  might  prove  to  be  identified.  Therefore  let 
them  be  rid  of  Annie  Deane  with  all  speed. 

But  before  sfie  could  go  there  were  one  or  two  little  cere- 
monies of  a  religious  character  which  must  be  gone  through  for 
the  credit  of  the  Home.  Had  Annie  ever  been  confirmed  ? 
Yes ;  she  had. 

The  Matron  lifted  her  brows,  sighing  at  the  inefficacy  of 
that  ceremony. 

**  Why  were  you  confirmed  ?  "  said  she  severely. 

"Because  the  Bishop  wus  comin',  ma'am,  an'  I  wus  gone 
fourteen." 

"  Did  you  feel  any  desire  to  be  confirmed  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am.     A  lot  of  us  went  together." 

"  You  should  not  have  gone  unless  you  felt  yourself  to  be 
prepared." 

'•  I  think  I  said  somethink  about  not  wantin'  to  go,  but 
mother  said  it  was  rubbish,  so  I  giv'  in." 

"You  were  wrong." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  meekly. 

"Your  baby  will  be  christened  on  Sunday  afternoon,  at  S 

117 


1x8  Bnnlc  2)cane 

Saviour's.  If  you  have  not  decided  on  a  name  for  him,  you 
had  better  do  so." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  have." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  call  him  ?  " 

"Lin." 

"What?" 

"Lin." 

"After  whom  are  you  naming  him?*' 

The  girl  coloured  distressfully,  but  said  nothing, 

The  Matron  felt  tranquilly  amused. 

"You  are  thinking  of  *Lynn,*  she  said,  "which  is  a  sur- 
name. You  could  not  call  your  child  that  It  would  be 
ridiculous." 

"  It  isn't  a  surname,  ma'am.     I  knows  that" 

"You  know  very  little,  I  think,  and  you  are  evidently 
mistaken.  At  all  events,  it  could  be  but  a  pet  name  for  a 
longer  one ;  or,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  in  good  families,  the 
mother's  maiden  name  given  to  the  son." 

"  It  might  'ave  bin  that" 

The  Matron  gave  way  to  anger.  Fancy  allowing  this  girl  te 
give  her  baby  a  gentleman's  pet  name.  There  was  no  shaming 
her  ignorant  presumption  !  Of  course,  "  Lin  "  was  the  name  of 
the  man  who  had  ruined  her. 

"You  will  do  better  not  to  call  the  child  anything  so 
inappropriate,"  she  said.  "  If  you  cannot  see  how — how 
shameless  it  makes  you  appear,  I  must  tell  you.  Please 
think  of  something  sensible.  I  could  not  submit  such  a  name 
as  this  to  Mr.  Netherwood." 

Annie  was  very  white. 

"  Then  we'll  let  it  be  without  any  name  at  all,  ma'am,"  she 
said  quietly,     "  I  can't  see  as  it  matters  much." 

"  But  it  does  matter.  The  child  must  be  known  to  the  parish 
authorities  by  some  name.  He  will  take  your  name  of  *  Deane,* 
and  some  other,  something  plain  and  suitable,  he  must  have  as 
well." 

Annie  spoke  respectfully,  but  firmly. 

"  He'll  be  named  '  Lin,'  ma'am,"  she  said,  "  or  nothink  at 
all.  If  I  could  see  as  it  mattered  to  anybody,  it  'd  be  another 
thing,  but  I  can't  Who's  to  care  what  I  calls  him  ?  I'm  not 
meanin'  to  be  saucy,  ma'am,  but  it  really  isn't  nobody's  business 
but  mine." 

She  trembled  lest  the  Matron  should  be  powerful  enough  to 
thwart  her. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  long  ago.     She  had  heard  the 


"5'U  call  Mm  tbat,  or  notbing  at  all"     119 

little  name  but  once ;  had  caught  her  breath  as  it  slipped  un- 
awares from  its  owner's  lips.  He  had  been  telling  her  of  the 
life  his  friends  had  been  good  enough  to  plan  for  him — a  life 
in  the  office  of  a  highly-respected  lawyer  uncle.  One  of  his 
cousins  had  kindly  "  taken  it  on,"  said  he,  "  instead." 

"  For  it's  more  in  my  line  than  yours,  Lin.  You  would  bolt 
in  a  month.  Street-singing,  now,  or  nigger  business  would  suit 
you  much  better." 

Annie  had  not  heard  the  last  part  of  the  sentence,  being  so 
interested  in  the  first. 

"  I  knows  your  name  ! "  she  had  burst  out  excitedly.  "  They 
calls  you  *  Lin.'  " 

He  had  made  one  of  his  odd  grimaces^  but  had  not  denied 
the  name. 

And  now,  in  spite  of  contempt  and  derision,  she  stood  her 
ground. 

"  Who's  to  care  what  I  calls  him  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  a 
choking  in  her  throat  as  she  thought  of  her  friendless  baby. 
"  I'll  call  him  that,  or  nothink  at  all." 

"  So,"  said  the  Matron  to  Mr.  Netherwood  later,  "  I  left  the 
matter  for  you  to  settle.     I  find  the  girl  quite  intractable." 

Mr.  Netherwood  smiled. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  "  I  see  no  objection.  Three  letters  of 
one  sort  make  a  name  as  well  as  three  letters  of  another. 
Take,  for  instance,  *T-o-m,'and  you  have  'Tom';  *J-i-m,'  and 
you  have  *  Jim' ;  *  J-o-e,'  and  you  have  '  Joe.*  '  Lin '  suggests  a 
refinement  which  strikes  you  as  being  out  of  place  ?  Well,  I 
cannot  see  our  right  to  dictate  to  the  girl  in  the  matter.  It 
only  concerns  herself." 

*'  But  the  point  is  this  : — the  girl  is  naming  the  child  after 
the  man  whose  whereabouts  she  has  refused  to  disclose. 
Surely  we  are  encouraging  a  bad  thing ;  we  are  making  a  sort 
of  heroine  of  her.  She  is  leaving  here  as  no  girl  has  ever  left 
before.  We  know  nothing  of  her;  we  are  not  in  touch  with 
her  friends.  I  say  that  we  have  permitted  ourselves  to  be 
duped  into  neglect  of  our  duty.  She  will  leave  here,  will  leave 
the  child  behind  her;  will  then  put  herself  in  renewed 
communication  with  this  man,  and  we  shall  actually  have 
aided  rather  than  prevented  her.  If  nothing  worse  comes  of 
it,  she  will  form  one  of  those  terrible  permanent  connections 
which  we  are  powerless  to  reach." 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Well,  you  see  you  are  not  as  practical  as  I,    You  are  an 


I20  Hnnfe  Deane 

Idealist,  and  are  taking  this  girl  for  what  she  is  not     She  is 
artful  and — presumptuous." 

Mr.  Netherwood's  luminous  eyes  looked  steadily  into  the 
Matron's. 

"  You  dislike  her,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  unjust  to  her,  because 
she  has  not  satisfied  your  curiosity." 

♦•  Mr.  Netherwood  ! " 

**  I  repeat  it.  You  are  influenced  by  personal  pique.  For- 
give me,  but  these  things  should  have  no  place  among  us." 

Her  crimson  face  betrayed  her.  She  had  sense  enough  not 
to  attempt  denial. 

'*  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said ;  "  but  we  have  had  some 
failures  lately,  and  when  I  see  lives  like  yours  recklessly  sacri- 
ficed for  worthless  creatures  who  grimace  behind  your  back  it 
hardens  me  against  them." 

"  Then,"  Mr.  Netherwood  rose  and  spoke  with  gentle  firm- 
ness, "it  becomes  necessary  for  you  to  resign  your  position. 
We  cannot  have  hardness ;  we  cannot  have  intolerance.  Our 
life  here  is  from  day  to  day,  and  admits  of  no  anticipation, 
no  discouragement  because  of  the  retrospect.  We  must  be 
patient,  we  must  ht  impersonal;  we  must  be  careless  of  ridicule, 
and  have  no  eyes  for  that  '  grimacing  behind  our  backs.'  We 
must  do  each  our  own  duty  and  leave  the  rest.  As  long  as  we 
are  troubling  whether  or  not  it  pays  to  do  our  duty,  then  I 
think  we  are  doing  two  things  at  once,  and  one  of  them — 
not  well.  If  any  poor  soul,  struggling  however  feebly  to  the 
right,  struggles  in  here  and  is  received  with  half-hearted  sym- 
pathy and  ill-concealed  scepticism,  then  we  are  disgracing  the 
name  under  which  we  fight." 

"  Mr.  Netherwood,  at  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood,  I  tell 
you  that  your  extreme  tolerance  does  harm.  You  give  too 
much  latitude.  Analyse  your  theory  of  unlimited  patience, 
and  you  will  find  that  it  means  allowing  women  to  drift  in  here 
and  out  again  as  they  will,  and  as  Kate  Lucas  has." 

"  And  where  have  we  any  authority  for  a  limit  ?  Find  me 
one,  and  I  will  sift  it  to  the  bottom.  Suppose  a  girl  comes  in 
here  and  goes  out  again  six  times,  and  the  seventh  comes  to 
stay?  It  is  our  business  to  receive  her,  but  it  is  not  our 
business  to  show  her  that  we  do  not  believe  in  her.  By  so 
doing  we  open  our  doors,  and  she  drifts  out.  If  your  personal 
want  of  faith  has  been  in  any  way  answerable  for  Kate  Lucas's 
falhng  away,  I  must  beg  you  to  resign  your  position." 
She  turned  as  white  as  the  collar  at  her  throat. 
"  Oh ! "  she  said  piteously  ;  "  oh,  Mr.  Netherwood ! " 


**5'U  call  bim  tbat,  or  notbtna  at  all"     121 

"  I  say  I  must.  You  are  the  power  here,  and  I  must  know 
that  you  are  quite  selfless  in  your  intercourse  with  these 
unfortunate  women." 

*'  With  the  unfortunate — yes  ;  but  I  have  been  talking  of  the 
wilfully  perverse." 

"  Leave  them,  or  rather  ask  whether  the  wilfully  perverse  be 
not  yourself.  To  us,  all  who  enter  here  are  simply  and  literally 
*  unfortunate.'  Unfortunate,  inasmuch  as  free  to  follow  that 
which  is  good,  they  yet  follow  that  which  is  evil,  to  their  own 
cost ;  free  to  walk  in  the  sun,  they  yet  turn  to  the  shade  ;  free 
to  walk  upright  in  the  open  ways,  they  yet  will  crawl  among 
the  filth  and  tangle  of  a  dismal  swamp !  For  such  marvellous 
lack  of  perception  should  there  be  anything  but  helpful  pity  ? 
Above  all,  when  the  poor  blind  creatures  stumble  ^in  here, 
should  they  be  confronted  by  personal  doubts  as  to  the 
sincerity  of  their  desire  to  see?  Never  mind  whether  they 
come  once  or  a  hundred  times,  they  shall  be  welcomed ;  if  not 
by  you,  then  by  somebody  in  your  stead." 

She  stood,  grasping  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"You  leave  me  no  alternative,"  she  said.  "When  this 
Home  was  established,  seven  years  ago,  I  took  on  its  manage- 
ment, I  was  going  to  say  that  I  have  done  my  best,  but 
talking  to  you  always  makes  one  wonder  what  one's  best  might 
be  made  by  increased  effort.  I  have  sometimes  felt  that  the 
woman  Lucas  would  be  the  cause  of  my  leaving.  I  say 
nothing  about  the  justice  of  sacrificing  me  to  her.  You  say  it 
is  right,  and  what  you  say  I  never  question.  I  will  stay  until 
you  can  fill  my  place,  and  will  give  my  successor  any 
information  I  can." 

"  Stay  a  moment,  you  can  help  us  in  another  way.  Will 
you  remain  as  manageress,  and  give  the  other  duties  into  the 
hands  of  Sister  Elizabeth?  You  would  still  guide  the 
machinery,  as  it  were,  but  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  those 
who  enter  or  those  who  leave." 

"You  propose  to  utilise  my  business  capacity?"  she  said 
bitterly,  "and  to  give  Sister  Elizabeth  the  right  to  order  me 
about?" 

"  I  do  not  look  at  it  in  that  way.  You  profess  to  have  the 
welfare  of  this  Home  at  heart,  but  you  have  shown  yourself 
unfit  for  the  post  you  have  hitherto  filled.  This  raises  a 
difficulty.  My  proposal  shows  you  a  way  out  of  it.  Which  is 
to  be  ?     Is  it  the  Home,  or  is  it  your  pride  ?  " 

She  considered  a  long,  long  time. 


199  Hmtte  2)eane 

"I  could  not  be  a  servant  to  Sister  Elizabeth,"  she  said  ai 
last,  very  slowly,  "  so  I  suppose  it  is  my  pride." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Mr.  Netherwood  said  to  himself  as  the  door 
closed  behind  her ;  "  but  if  she  interfered  with  this  work,  it  was 
imperative  that  she  should  go." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

*  but  if  that  woman  could  live  to  show  she 
wasn't  ruined?" 

On  the  following  Sunday  Annie  carried  her  baby  to  church, 
where,  in  spite  of  opposition  and  ridicule,  he  received  the  name 
of  "  Lin,"  in  addition  to  that  of  Deane.  Now  it  happened 
that  the  afternoon  service,  instead  of  bringing  peace  to  Annie, 
brought  sore  trouble  and  misunderstanding.  The  day  was  hot, 
and  the  sermon — specially  addressed  to  those  about  to  be  con- 
firmed— was  long.  Baby  Lin  lay  across  his  mother's  knees, 
sleeping  as  peacefully  as  the  most  reputable  baby  alive,  while 
the  voice  of  the  preacher  resounded  through  the  building,  now 
swelling  in  exhortation,  now  sinking  to  a  whisper  of  warning  or 
reproach,  but  always  failing  to  convey  to  Annie  any  idea  what 
it  was  all  about  There  was  nothing  of  which  the  ignorant 
mind  could  lay  hold;  it  was  all  high-sounding  and  vague. 
Annie  tried  her  hardest  to  follow  that  discourse,  hoping  to  come 
across  something  which  should  serve  as  a  guide  to  her,  which 
should  shed  some  light  on  the  path  of  her  everyday  life.  The 
Matron  and  the  Sisters  had  told  her  that  worldly  things  were 
dead  to  her,  and  that  she  was  dead  to  them;  that  religion 
was  the  thing  by  which  alone  she  might  venture  to  steer  her 
course  through  the  sombre  existence  which  remained  to  her  j 
that  she  must  be  content  with  joys  of  the  higher,  unseen  sort, 
with  the  hope  of  the  world  to  come.  She  had  listened  very 
wistfully,  being  young,  but  had  not  questioned  the  truth  of  what 
she  heard.  So  Religion  was  all  that  was  left  her  ?  If  that  were 
so,  then  must  she  and  Religion  be  close  friends,  and  under- 
stand each  other  very  thoroughly !  She  had  set  to  work  to  find 
out  what  she  made  of  the  Christian  life  as  set  forth  in  the  New 
Testament.  The  first  thing  she  had  discovered  was  that  the 
Matron  herself  was  no  Christian,  the  second — that  to  be  a 
Christian  at  all  was  a  hard,  not  to  say  impossible,  thing. 

"  I  say  unto  you.  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that  curse 
you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  which 


124  Hnnie  Deane 

despitefully  use  you  and  persecute  you,  that  ye  may  be  the 
children  of  your  Father  which  is  in  Heaven." 

And  again : 

"  Whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on  thy  right  cheek,  turn  to  him 
the  other  also." 

These  words,  and  many  others  of  the  same  purport,  had  set 
the  girl  thinking.  She  had  heard  and  read  them  many  times, 
and  had  not  understood.  She  understood  now,  and  was  deeply 
impressed  as  she  thought  of  the  number  of  professing  Christians 
she  had  encountered  in  even  her  limited  acquaintance. 

*'  I  wonders  how  so  many  people  dares,"  she  said  to  herself, 
in  sudden  awe.  "  They  wouldn't  if  they  see  these  command- 
ments like  I  sees  them.  Mrs.  Fryer  wus  always  talkin'  of  herself 
as  one  of  God's  people,  an'  the  Matron  seems  to  talk  as  if  she 
wus  that  above  bein'  lii?e  other  people  that  there  wus  no  gettin' 
up  near  her !  But  neither  of  they  wouldn't  do  good  to  anyone 
as  did  evil  to  them,  nor  stand  by  patient  to  offer  the  other 
cheek  I  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  iell  anybody  that  I'm  a 
Christian.     I'll  keep  it  to  myself  till  I  see  how  I  gets  on." 

She  had  said  it  in  all  good  faith  and  reverence,  and  had 
shut  the  Book  slowly,  very  sad  at  heart 

She  settled  herself  to-day  to  listen  to  the  sermon  with  all 
her  might,  eager  to  be  helped  forward  upon  a  difficult  way,  to 
hear  something  which  should  open  the  door  of  her  dark  soul 
and  so  let  in  the  light 

The  preacher  enlarged  upon  the  blessed  privilege  of  baptism 
which  all  enjoyed  in  common;  upon  what  he  termed  the 
"  glorious  mystery  of  ba'ptismal  regeneration,"  by  which,  while 
they  were  yet  unconscious  babes,  they  could  become  partici- 
pators in  the  priceless  gift  of  salvation.  He  reminded  them 
again  and  again  that  they  were  "  baptized  into  the  very  body 
and  blood  of  Jesus  Christ."  He  felt  he  could  not  sufficiently 
impress  upon  them  this  magnificent  truth. 

Annie  caught  the  sentence,  repeating  it  to  herself  until  the 
words — vague  enough  in  themselves — were  totally  meaningless 
and  bewildering.  She  put  them  behind  her  at  last,  only  to 
find  that  she  had  lost  what  bit  of  the  thread  of  that  discourse 
she  had  been  able  to  pick  up,  and  that  the  preacher  had  lost 
himself  in  a  labyrinth  of  high-sounding  words  which  might  be 
impressive,  but  were  certainly  not  intelligible. 

Annie's  desire  for  practical  guidance  faded  away  in  dis- 
appointment. Her  attention  wandered  to  the  beautiful  win- 
dows, to  the  high-arched  roof,  to  the  snowy  reredos  in  the 
dim,  rich  chancel ;  then  it  came  back  to  the  people  about  her 


Sbe  wasn't  IRuinet)  125 

to  the  yawning  school  children,  to  two  bent  and  wrinkled  aged 
people  who  reminded  her  of  the  villagers  at  home.  She  looked 
at  them  kindly,  and  smiled.  Then  everything  seemed  lost  in 
a  misty  hush.  She  lost  consciousness  of  what  was  passing 
around  her  because  of  something  which  was  passing  within 
her,  until  she  came  back  to  present  circumstances  with  a 
start  because  Sister  Elizabeth  had  tapped  her  sharply  on  the 
arm.  Holding  her  baby  more  tightly,  she  sat  upright  and 
saw  that  the  other  girls  were  staring  at  her,  and  that  Sister 
Elizabeth's  solemn  face  was  all  alight  with  indignation.  She 
turned  crimson,  and  bent  over  the  sleeping  baby. 

Through  the  remainder  of  the  service  she  knew  she  was  in 
disgrace,  and  after  a  silent  walk  back  to  the  Home,  was 
followed  up  to  her  room  by  Sister  Elizabeth  herself. 

"  Annie  Deane,"  said  she  gently,  "  this  is  your  last  Sunday 
here,  and  we  have  all  been  hoping  that  the  remembrance  of  it 
would  be  blessed  to  you.  But  for  something  I  myself  saw  this 
afternoon,  I  might  have  let  you  go  without  further  warning." 

"  What  did  you  see,  ma'am  ?  "  faltered  Annie. 

"  I  saw  your  conduct  in  church,  and  I  am  obliged  to  say 
that  it  was  very  bad.  The  others  were  preparing  for  a  solemn 
ceremony,  and  through  you  their  attention  was  turned  aside. 
Before  you  leave  us  we  must  try  once  more  to  show  you  the 
only  way  by  which  you  can  hope  to  hold  your  own  against  the 
evil  which  is  struggling  for  mastery  over  you." 

"  What  did  I  do  ? "  sobbed  Annie  miserably,  "  do  tell  me 
what  I've  done." 

"I  was  watching  you  the  whole  of  the  time.  I  saw  you 
look  about  you  ;  first  at  one  window,  then  at  another ;  I  saw 
you  look  at  the  school  children  and  at  the  old  people.  When 
you  could  find  nothing  else  to  interest  you,  you  let  your 
thoughts  drift  away  to  worldly  matters,  and  then  you  openly 
laughed.  It  was  a  scandalous  thing,  and  caused  the  attention 
of  the  others  to  wander.  I  must  report  this  to  Mr.  Netherwood. 
He  comes  after  Evensong  to  speak  to  those  who  leave  us 
to-morrow." 

Sister  Elizabeth  turned  and  left  the  room.  Annie  threw 
herself  down  and  sobbed  until  she  was  weary  and  faint. 

Between  five  and  six  Sister  Ruth  came  up  with  some  tea. 

"  Don't  cry  like  that,"  she  said  kindly ;  "  I  am  sorry  you  are 
in  trouble  on  your  last  day  with  us.  I  feel  so  sure  you  did  not 
intend  to  set  a  bad  example  this  afternoon.  I  saw  you  smile, 
but  I  thought  it  was  only  because  you  were  happy.  And  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  not  to  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Netherwood  when 


ia6  Bnnie  2)eane 

he  sends  for  you  presently.  Tell  him  whatever  is  in  your  mind. 
He  is  so  good  and  so  very  patient !  Speak  out  to  him,  and 
don't  be  afraid." 

Sister  Ruth  departed  then,  but  the  gentle  words  put  renewed 
life  into  Annie.  She  begged  to  stay  away  from  church,  and, 
once  by  herself,  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter ;  one  which  was 
apparently  difficult  to  write,  for  it  took  so  long,  and  so  many 
tears  were  shed  over  it,  that  as  she  laboriously  fitted  the  paper 
into  the  envelope,  she  heard  the  others  come  in  from  church. 
She  began  to  tremble,  knowing  that  her  summons  from  Mr. 
Netherwood  might  come  at  any  moment. 

Now  to  Annie  Mr.  Netherwood  was  a  being  of  another 
sphere,  scarcely  human,  knowing  so  much  without  being  told ; 
scarcely  divine,  being  so  manly  of  speech  and  so  sympathetic 
His  message  was  not  long  in  coming.  Annie  obeyed  it  halt- 
ingly. Outside  his  private  room  she  paused,  leaning  against 
the  door  in  a  state  of  uncontrollable  agitation.  She  dreaded 
the  strong,  bright  light  inside;  she  dreaded  the  clear  eyes 
which,  meeting  hers,  would  see  through  all  her  secret  thoughts, 
try  how  she  might  to  hide  them. 

She  knocked,  was  bidden  to  enter,  and  found,  to  her  bound- 
less relief,  that  the  room  was  dark.  The  blinds  were  down,  and 
matches  and  taper  lay  ready  upon  the  table,  but  Mr.  Nether- 
wood sat  with  his  back  to  the  door,  nor  when  it  opened  did  he 
lift  his  head. 

In  truth,  he  was  ashamed  of  the  attitude  the  Sisters  had 
assumed,  and  were  compelling  him  to  assume,  towards  the 
girl;  and  as  he  sat  there  waiting  for  her,  one  version  of  an 
old  Story  came  into  his  mind,  touching  him  with  a  sense  of 
hitherto  undiscovered  beauty  and  delicacy.  According  to  this 
version  there  was  brought  unto  One  in  the  days  of  His  ministry 
a  woman  upon  whom  He  was  urged  to  pass  summary  and  im- 
mediate sentence  because  of  her  being  taken  in  open  and 
shameless  sin.  But  He  paused,  and  stooping,  made  as  if  He 
would  have  written  something  upon  the  ground,  "  As  though  he 
heard  them  not"  That  memorable,  graphically-painted  scene 
flashed  into  Netherwood's  mind,  and  he  understood  that 
stooping  Figure  and  averted  Face  as  he  had  never  done 
before. 

Surely  the  most  human,  the  most  manly  and  chivalrous  act 
here  in  this  Book  recorded !  Showing  that  before  even  that 
poor,  battered  wreck  of  womanhood  He  was  ashamed,  and  that 
until  her  howling,  open-mouthed  accusers  had  slunk  away  Ho 
mercifully  forbore  to  look  her  in  the  face. 


Sbe  wasn't  1Ru!ne^  127 

There  was  silence  in  Mr.  Netherwood's  study  for  some  few 
moments,  and  then  it  was  Annie  who  spoke. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  you  sent  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  are  leaving  us  to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  say  a  few 
words  to  you.  Will  you  sit  down?  I  am  suffering  from 
headache,  and  shall  be  glad  to  leave  the  gas  unlit  for  a  while." 

Annie's  fear  vanished  in  sympathy. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  timidly;  "please,  sir,  don't  trouble 
about  talkin'  to  me  if  you're  not  well." 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing  much,  and  1  must  say  something  I  have 
promised  to  say.  The  Matron  and  Sister  Elizabeth  are  con- 
cerned about  you.  They  feel  they  know  as  little  of  you  now  as 
they  did  when  you  came." 

"  Yes,  sir !  "  said  Annie  drearily. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  decided  to  trust  them.  It  would 
have  made  you  friends,  and  given  you  a  home  here  to  which 
you  might  have  been  glad  to  come  sometimes." 

"  What  is  it  they  want  to  know,  sir  ?  " 

"  For  the  first  thing — your  parents'  address.  Your  want  of 
desire  to  assure  your  friends  of  your  safety  strikes  the  Sisters  as 
heartless,  and,  on  this  point,  I  agree  with  them." 

"  Please,  sir,  I  have  wrote  to  mother  to-night.  I  would  have 
done  it  before  but  for  bein'  afraid  o'  the  Sisters  seein'  where  I 
sent  the  letter.  They'd  sure  to  have  wrote,  too,  and  p'r'aps 
what  they  said  would  ha'  fetched  mother  or  father  up  here  after 
me.  I  didn't  want  that,  sir.  They  no  more  wants  me  back 
there  than  I  wants  to  go, 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  sir,  so  I  thought  I  wouldn't  write  till  I'd  got  a 
place  an'  wus  goin'  to  it.  I  couldn't  go  back  home  without  the 
baby—" 

"  We  will  take  care  of  him  if  you  like  to  go  back  alone." 

"  I  couldn't,  sir.  He've  got  nobody  but  me,  an'  I  can't  go 
an'  leave  him  behind,  so  I'll  stop  where  he  is,  sir." 

"That  reminds  me — I  believe  Mrs.  Holt  wished  you  to 
conceal  the  child  !  You  were  very  decided  in  refusing.  The 
Sisters  thought  a  little  too  much  so." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  I've  made  up  my  mind  never  to  hide  the 
baby,  an'  I  wus  afraid  they'd  try  to  persuade  me.  I  want  to  do 
what's  right,  tho'  they  don't  believe  me ;  an'  how  can  I  do  that 
if  I  begins  iay  makin'  out  I  haven't  got  no  baby?  If  I  makes 
believe  he  is  not  mine  it'd  be  a  lie,  and  I  couldn't  start  agen 
with  a  lie,  sir  ! " 

"  That  is  true." 


128  Bnnie  Deane 

"That's  why  I  couldn't  go  back  home.  I'd  be  so  much 
more  tempted  to  hide  him — there.  Here,  as  long  as  I  does  my 
duty,  why  should  anybody  interfere  about  my  baby  ?  " 

Mr.  Netherwood  was  silent.  The  Sisters  complained  of 
Annie's  unbecoming  manner,  but  as  far  as  he  saw  she  spoke 
straightforwardly  and  sensibly.  She  did  not  cringe — that  was 
all. 

"Please,  sir,  did  you  hear  that  I  got  into  trouble  this 
afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  did.     I  wished  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"  What  did  you  hear,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  you  were  inattentive,  that  your  manner  was  not  such 
as  befitted  the  holy  place  you  were  in ;  that,  having  allowed 
your  thoughts  to  drift  entirely  away,  you  suddenly  and  openly 
laughed" 

The  girl  rose  and  stood  leaning  against  the  table. 

"  Sir,"  she  said  quietly,  "  please,  that  isn't  true.  I  didn't  tell 
nobody  else  the  truth  o'  this  afternoon's  church,  but  when  I'm 
talkin'  to  you  I  feels  I'm  talkin*  to  someone  as  will  believe  me. 
It  wus  like  this :  I  went  to  church  as  happy  as  anythink, 
thinkin'  o'  my  new  place,  and  how  good  it  wus  o'  God  to  find 
a  home  for  me  an'  the  baby  too.  I  went  there  expectin'  to 
hear  somethink  as  would  help  me  an'  show  me  how  to  get  on. 
Right  up  to  the  sermon  I  right  down  enjoyed  it,  for  it  wus 
beautiful,  an'  one  o'  the  hymns  we  used  to  have  at  home. 
When  the  minister  began  the  sermon,  I  found  it  wus  to  them 
as  wus  goin'  to  be  confirmed,  but  the  things  he  said  I  couldn't 
understand.  I  tried  hard,  but  at  last  1  give  it  up,  for  I 
couldn't  understand.  What  he  said  didn't  seem  as  if  it 
had  anythink  to  do  with  me.  I  looked  round.  The 
girls  wus  sittin'  up  straight,  but  I  could  tell  they  wusn't 
lis'nin',  and  two  poor  old  people  agenst  the  door  wus 
gone  to  sleep.  I  begun  to  feel  like  cryin'.  Sister  'Lizabeth 
have  often  told  me  that  there's  nothink  but  religion  left  lor  me 
as  long  as  ever  I  lives,  and  I  wondered  how  could  I  ever  be 
happy  with  on'y  a  thing  as  I  couldn't  understand  ?  An'  how 
could  it  keep  me  from  doin'  what's  wrong.  My  head  begun  to 
ache,  an'  I  sort  o'  went  sleepy,  till  somethink  set  me  lis'nin'. 
It  kep'  beatin'  through  the  church  like  a  great  heart,  so  that 
mine  kep'  time  with  it.  1  couldn't  make  it  out,  but  it  was  a 
reg'lar  '  throb  ! '  *  throb  ! '  as  didn't  never  stop,  and  seemed  like 
to  go  on  always.  But  then  come  a  funny  whizzin'  noise,  an'  a 
click,  an'  it  struck  four.  The  beat  went  on  agen  directly 
after,  an'  I  knew  it  wus  on'y  the  big  clock  up  there  in  the 


Sbe  wasn't  IRuinet)  1*9 

tower.  But  somehow,  sir,  it  had  showed  me  more  than  the 
preacher  had,  and  I  see  quite  clear  that  it  didn't  matter  whether 
I  could  understand  or  not.  Him,  an'  liis  voice,  an'  the  people 
all  seemed  a  long  way  off,  till  there  wus  nothink  left  but  the 
beat  o'  the  great  clock,  an'  me.  I  thought  of  how  it  had 
kep'  on  night  an'  day  long  'fore  we  wus  born,  an'  how  it'd  go  on 
jest  the  same  after  we  wus  all  dead,  an'  I  see  as  clear  as  day- 
light that  the  long  words  I  couldn't  understand  need  not 
trouble  me  nor  yet  nothink  else ;  for  I  see  that  the  God  who'd 
made  even  Tinie^  an'  could  keep  everythink  steady  an'  sure  like 
the  beat  o'  that  great  clock,  could  take  care  o'  me  an'  my 
poor  baby.  I  can't  tell  it  to  you  as  it  come  to  me,  but  it  did 
come,  an'  I  know  I'll  never  forget  it.  I  wus  that  happy, 
p'r'aps  I  did  laugh — I  couldn't  say  now." 

She  stopped,  and  the  sound  of  her  wistful  voice  seemed  to 
linger  about  the  twilight  room. 

"  Do  you  understand  me,  sir  ?  *  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
"It  sounds  somehow  poor  now  I've  spoke  of  it,  but  it  wus 
clear  enough  to  me  then." 

Understand?  Did  he  not?  His  face  was  buried  in  his 
hands,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  I  do  understand,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  and  I  tell  you  that 
you  saw  more  in  that  flash  of  light  than  I  or  any  other  man 
could  show  you  in  a  life-time  !  The  God  Who  made  you  spoke 
to  you  in  the  beat  of  that  clock,  which  does  but  measure  out 
His  time.  Never  mind  whether  you  understand  the  words  of 
His  minister  or  not.  You  know  now  what  I  know  to  be 
enough." 

Annie  underwent  a  sudden  reaction.  That  this  man,  who 
to  her  was  little  short  of  a  saint,  should  come  down  to  her 
level,  should  stand,  as  it  were,  side  by  side  with  her,  and  not 
be  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it,  was  too  much  for  her.  She 
dropped  her  head  on  the  table,  and  burst  into  tears. 

He  rose  and  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  her  bowed  head. 

"  Have  no  fear  for  your  future.  1  know  you  will  do  that 
which  is  right.  If  it  will  be  of  any  comfort  to  you,  remember 
that  /  understand  you,  that  /trust  you,  that  /beheve  if  you 
fail  in  your  new  undertaking  it  will  not  be  your  fault.  And  if 
you  do  fail,  come  to  me  ;  I  will  find  you  another  home  wherein 
you  shall  succeed.  Keep  hold  of  what  was  given  you  in  church 
to-day,  and  do  whatever  is  given  you  to  do  with  all  your  might ; 
then,  although  life  may  be  wanting  in  what  is  known  to  many 
as  *  pleasure,'  I  promise  you  that  it  will  yet  be  well  worth  living, 
of  actual  use  and  value  to  you  and  to  those  who  know  you. 

I 


I30  Bnnie  Deane 

Now,  having  told  me  so  much,  will  you  tell  a  little  more  ?  I 
am  not  asking  this  to  satisfy  myself.  You  are  suspected  of 
being  in  communication  with  the  man  who  was  the  cause  of 
your  coming  here.     Will  you  tell  me  if  this  is  so  ?  " 

"  It  isn't,  sir." 

"  You  know  where  he  is  ?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  say  what'll  p'r'aps  make  you  think  I'm  tellin'  a 
lie,  sir;  but  tho'  I  once  heard  him  say  that  name  what  I've 
give  the  baby,  I  knows  no  more  what  his  right  name  wus,  nor 
who  he  wus,  than>'<?a  do,  sir." 

He  looked  as  he  felt — surprised. 

"  Please  beUeve  it's  the  truth,  sir." 

"  I  believe  it.  A  lie  between  you  and  me  would  not  be 
possible." 

"  It  must  seem  unlikely,  sir,  but  I  say  agen  it's  the  truth.  I 
come  to  London  hopin'  to  find  him,  but  I  know  now  there's  no 
chance." 

"Which  is  a  merciful  thing  for  you.  This  makes  your 
future  all  the  more  hopeful,  seeing  how  utterly  your  past  is — 
done  with." 

«  Yes,  sir  ! " 

There  was  such  a  quiver  of  pain  in  the  dreary  words  that 
they  touched  the  human  side  of  Netherwood. 

"  Let  him  go,"  he  said  steadily,  "  and  put  all  thought  of  him 
behind  you." 

She  sighed  miserably. 

"  I'll  try,  sir ;  but  it's  hard  for  me  to  think  him  so  bad  as  he 
seems  to  be  to  you  what  didn't  know  him." 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  call  any  man  bad.  But  the  fact 
remains  that  he  did  a  terrible  thing,  for  which  soon  or  late  he 
will  have  to  suffer." 

"  No,  sir,"  she  burst  out  excitedly,  "  Fve  suffered  enough  for 
that ;  an'  if  I  never  learned  to  pray  for  nothink  else,  I'd  pray 
God  not  to  punish  him.     Why  should  he  be  punished — now  ?  " 

"  Could  any  man  think  to  ruin  a  woman  and  not  answer 
for  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  if  the  woman  could  live  to  show  as  she  wastit 
ruined  ?  " 

Netherwood  was  startled.  It  was  such  a  desperate  question, 
asked  with  bated  breath — fearfully.  The  Matron  or  the  Sisters 
would  have  instantly  said :  "  You  are  ruined,  beyond  all  hope 
or  doubt,"  but  the  random  hurling  of  harsh  truths  had  no  part 
Id  the  curate's  method.     For  a  moment  he  knew  not  what  to 


J5be  wasn't  IRu(net)  131 

say.  The  girl  went  on  piteously,  speaking  as  if  to  one  who 
could  not  fail  to  understand,  and  so — to  help. 

"  I  don't  want  him  punished ;  oh !  I  don't  want  him 
punished  !  He  was  young,  an'  kind  to  me,  an'  I  know  that  if 
he'd  thought  about  it  he'd  never  have  done  a  bad  thing  to 
nobody.  If  I've  sinned  once  and  am  sorry  for  it,  why  shouldn't 
he  be,  too  ?     If  I'm  forgive  for  my  sin,  can't  he  be  as  well  ?  " 

"  We  will  hope  that  he  is  sorry  for  it." 

"  I'm  sure  he  is,"  she  said,  with  her  hands  locked  hard  one 
in  the  other.  "  I  knows  him.  I  wish  you  did.  I've  heard 
the  Sisters  say  as  it's  your  delight  to  find  some  good  in  them  as 
others  thinks  is  all  bad." 

"  I  have  found  no  man  all  bad,  thank  God !  But  I  beg  of 
you  to  look  at  this  man  fairly,  to  cease  to  cling  to  him  as  some- 
thing which  he  is  not.  I  must  say,  and  that  in  very  decided 
fashion,  that  his  sin  towards  you  was  of  the  vilest,  and  I  fear 
that  the  more  I  knew  of  it  the  less  reason  I  should  see  to  alter 
my  opinion." 

"  That's  what  they  all  says,"  she  said  grievously.  **  That  it 
wus  one  of  the  worst  sins,  and  deserves  a  hard  punishment.  It 
was — first  along — the  thinkin'  o'  that  as  made  me  try  to  be  a 
good  girl.  An'  I  will  try — I  will  try  !  Becos'  if,  after  all,  I 
could  prove  as  I  wusn't  ruined,  wouldn't  it  come  right  ? 
Would  it  be  fair  to  punish  a  man  heavy  for  what  he  hadn't 
done?" 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,  but  he  cannot  escape,  seeing  that  the 
intention  was  to  ruin.  It  is  the  intention,  you  see,  rather  than 
the  deed." 

*•  He  never  intended,"  she  said,  with  steady  persistence ;  "if 
'twas  anythink,  'twas  for  want  o'  thinkin'." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  my  part  to  teach  you  hard 
thoughts  of  anyone,  even  of  him.  Put  him  away  from  you  as 
completely  as  possible,  or  think  of  him  only  when  you  are 
upon  your  knees." 

At  that  moment  a  lamp  in  the  street  was  lit.  The  feeble 
rays  came  through  the  drawn  blinds,  making  a  patch  of  light 
in  the  quiet  room. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  Netherwood  said,  "  that  I  read  your  mind 
on  this  subject,  and  I  see  there  a  hope  that  you  will  meet  this 
man  again." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  feel  that  some  day  before  I  dies  I'll  see  him 
agen,  somewhere.  I  don't  see  it's  very  likely,  but  there's  that 
feelin'  about  me  all  the  same.  An'  if  there  was  anythink  as  I 
could  choose,  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  show  him  some  day  as  I'd 


i3»  annle  H)eane 

done  well  for  myself  an'  the  baby  what  he  didn't  know  about ; 
I'd  like  to  tell  him  how  I'd  tried  to  be  a  good  girl,  so  as  he 
shouldn't  have  to  answer  for  any  harm  as  had  come  to  me." 

Mr.  Netherwood  rose. 

"  I  think  I  have  no  more  to  say  just  now.  Should  this  man 
cross  your  path  again,  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  know.  Against 
all  ordinary  temptation,  I  believe  you  can — with  God's  help — 
hold  your  own,  but  against  that  one  you  might  fail." 

•'  I  don't  think  you'd  need  to  fear,  sir,"  she  said,  in  her  old- 
fashioned,  patient  way ;  "  there  won't  be  much  now  to  tempt 
me.  All  I've  got  to  hope  for  when  I  leaves  here  to-morrow 
is  that  I'll  be  able  to  please  them  as  is  kind  enough  to  give  me 
the  chance,  an'  that  I'll  learn  to  be  a  good  mother  to  my  poor 
baby." 

Netherwood  held  out  his  hand  in  silence ;  in  silence  Annie 
put  hers  into  it,  and  then  passed  out  of  the  dim  room  into  the 
gas-lit  halL 

•  ••••  ••« 

On  the  next  day  she  passed  out  of  the  great  iron  gates  of 
St.  Saviour's  Home  into  the  work-a-day  world  outside,  there 
to  begin  life  afresh  in  the  humble  capacity  of  a  domestic 
servant. 

On  the  following  Tuesday  morning  the  village  postman  gave 
Mrs.  Deane  a  letter.  It  bore  no  address,  being  simply  headed 
by  the  date : 

•'  My  dear  Mother, — I  hope  you  havent  been  very  worried 
about  me,  becos  Ive  been  better  took  care  of  than  I  deserved 
to  be.  I  am  going  mto  a  place  of  service  with  a  lady  and 
gentleman  to-morrow,  and  your  not  to  think  but  what  I  will  do 
all  right.  My  dear  mother,  I  have  been  a  sad  truble,  and  I  am 
very  sorry  I  cant  come  back,  becos  theres  something  else 
to  be  thought  about,  and  I  couldn't  bring  it  home,  so  I 
must  stay  away  and  work  for  it.  It  hasent  got  nobody  but  me, 
and  never  will  have,  so  I  must  work  hard  and  do  without 
myself  to  let  him  have  it.  I  don't  mmd  work,  as  you  knows. 
My  dear  mother,  pleas  dont  tell  the  others  about  me  bein  a  bad 
girl,  for  I  was  fond  of  the  little  things,  and  I  know  they  was 
fond  of  me,  and  I  wouldnt  like  to  know  that  they  was  learnt  to 
thmk  bad  of  me.  I  have  had  all  my  things  for  service  found 
me,  and  some  money  what  I  had  when  I  come  here  (its  a 
Home)  give  back  to  me  So  I  got  the  Matron  to  tell  me  how 
to  send  money  away.  She  give  me  this  peace  of  paper  for  ten 
shillings.    Fleas  buy  something  for  one  of  them,  the  baby  I 


Sbe  wasn't  IRuineD  133 

would  like  best,  and  kiss  him,  for  I  do  think  of  him,  and  T  did 
miss  him  at  first.  I  shall  alwis  think  about  you  all,  and  if  you 
will  write  to  me  and  address  the  letter  to  the  Reverend  F. 
Netherwood,  at  St.  Saviours  Home,  London,  E.,  I  shall  get  it 
by  comin  for  it.  But  I  do  hope  you  wont  be  comin  after  me 
nor  perswadin  me  to  come  back,  becose  I  cant  never  do  that. 
With  kind  love  to  father  and  you  and  all, 

"  I  remain,  your  loving  daughter, 

"  Annie." 

Mrs.  Deane  was  little  touched  by  that  letter.  It  came  too 
late,  and  was  too  independent  in  tone.  Also,  whatever 
anxiety  she  had  felt  for  her  daughter's  safety  had  been  tempered 
by  the  memory  of  that  five-pound  note.  She  thought  of  it  now 
as  she  looked  at  the  post-office  order  for  ten  shillings. 

"She  could  well  afford  to  send  it,"  was  her  bitter  comment; 
"all  her  things  found  her,  and  two  or  three  pound  in  her  pocket. 
She's  better  off  than  we,  Dan'l.  P'r'aps  she've  sent  an'  paid  Mrs. 
Fryer  soraethink  for  her  board.  I'll  ast  Mrs.  Drake  if  she 
have— that  I  will." 

Annie  had  not  sent  Mrs.  Fryer  anything  at  all,  and  her 
parents  thought  it  an  unpardonable  omission.  Moreovt  r,  they 
said  what  they  thought,  which  led  to  Mrs.  Fryer  thinking  the 
matter  over,  with  the  result  that  Mrs.  Drake  was  the  recipient 
of  the  following  remarkable  document : — 

Mrs.  Drake, 

To  Mrs.  Fryer. 

£  s.  D. 
Six  weeks'  board  and  lodging,  at  7s.  6d.  per  week,  for  Miss 

Annie  Deane 250 

One  case  of  wax  flowers  under  glass  shade,  broke  by  Master 

Deane o  10    o 

In  consideration  of  housework  done  by  Miss  Deane  while  she 

was  here,  at  2s.  6d.  per  week o  15    o 

Balance  due  to  Mrs.  Fryer.. 200 

Mrs.  Fryer  will  be  oblidged  by  receiving  the  above  at  your  earliest 
convenience. 

This  document  caused  Mrs.  Drake  more  than  one  fit  of 
immoderate  laughter. 

"  God  bless  the  silly  woman  ! "  she  panted,  as  she  wiped  her 
eyes.  "  Why,  we'll  pay  her  a  trifle  for  the  girl's  board,  to  be 
sure,  if  she's  that  stingy ;  but  as  for  the  glass  shade ! — them 


134  Bnnle  S)eanc 

there  things  is  goin'  out  o'  date  fast,  an'  a  very  good  thing  too  I 
They  was  never  like  flowers  as  grew  in  any  garden  /  ever  see ; 
an'  why  I  dorCt  know,  but  they  alwis  did  put  me  in  mind  of  a 
coffin !  She  ought  to  have  give  that  child  sixpence  for  makin' 
an  end  of  'em." 

But  the  glass  shade  was  paid  for  after  all,  in  strictest  secrecy, 
by  a  lad  whose  name  was  Jim, 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   FIRST   FOUR  YEARS 

If  life  in  her  new  sphere  had  promised  Annie  little  variety,  it 
certainly  kept  its  promise ;  if  she  had  expected  hard  work  and 
plenty  of  it,  she  was  not  cheated,  nor  did  she,  in  consequence, 
grumble. 

The  days  were  very  much  alike  in  that  quiet  suburban 
square.  To  rise  at  six  every  morning  was  no  hardship 
to  Annie,  but  the  descent  to  the  underground  kitchen,  where 
flourished  black  beetles  by  the  score,  was  a  trial  which  she 
never  learned  to  face  with  fortitude.  With  skirts  held  high,  with 
some  flat  and  heavy  missile  at  hand,  she  would  make  for  the 
hearthrug,  which  was  religiously  laid  down  in  the  afternoons 
only,  and  would  hurl  it  away  from  her,  while  she  waited  for  results 
with  set  teeth  and  dilated  eyes.  Then  would  follow  a  great 
and  loathsome  slaughter,  which  scarcely  left  Annie  mistress  of 
the  situation,  seeing  that  she  stood  as  much  in  awe  of  the  dead 
and  dying  around  her  as  she  did  of  the  scurrying  survivors  of 
the  massacre. 

"  If  there  is  anything  in  your  new  life  you  find  specially  hard, 
don't  be  afraid  to  speak  of  it,"  Mr.  Netherwood  said  to  her  the 
first  time  he  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  her  alone.  "  It  very 
often  happens  that  a  trouble  spoken  of  is  a  trouble  lightened." 

"Oh,  sir!  "  she  said  ruefully,  "there's  nothink  I  think  but 
what  I  can  get  used  to,  'less  it's  the  beetles ;  an'  they  swarms  at 
night  so  as  you  can  hear  them  !  I  knows  it's  very  stoopid,  but 
I'd  rather  work  double  as  hard  in  a  place  where  there  wasn't  no 
beetles." 

Mr.  Netherwood  laughed,  at  which  Annie  turned  very  red. 
It  was  a  little  thing,  but  there  is  room  in  a  large  mind  for  very 
little  things,  and  Mr.  Netherwood  made  a  private  note  of 
Annie's  beetles.  He  sent  his  own  servant  to  Merryon  Square 
with  a  well-tried  "exterminator,"  which,  without  exterminating, 
materially  lessened ;  and  one  can  get  used  to  most  things, 
even  black  beetles. 

There  were  many  other  troubles  of  the  minor  sort  of  which 
Annie  never  spoke.      For  instance,  a  girl  who  rise  at  six  gets 

135 


136  annie  IDeane 

hungry  before  nine  ;  but  nine  was  the  breakfast  hour  in  Merryon 
Square,  and  no  permission  was  given  Annie  to  anticipate  this. 
At  first  she  wondered  if  there  would  be  any  harm  in  making 
herself  a  cup  of  tea  between  seven  and  eight,  the  time  when 
she  began  to  feel  a  bit  faint ;  but  one  liitle  incident  which 
happened  during  her  first  week  settled  that  point  for  good. 

Mrs.  Holt,  spotless  and  fresh  and  juvenile,  trotted  down  to 
the  kitchen  at  five  minutes  to  nine,  and  took  the  teapot  from 
the  dresser.     Annie  saw  her  put  one  hand  on  its  shining  side. 

"It  feels  warm,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  accession  of  colour. 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  I  shone  it  up  a  bit,  because  I  was  standin' 
about  wail  in'." 

Mrs.  Holt  lifted  the  lid  and  sniffed. 

"  It  smells  oi fresh  tea,"  she  said,  her  pink  colour  deepening 
to  red. 

**  Do  it,  ma'am  ? "  said  Annie.  "  I  rensed  it  out  when  I 
polished  it — p'r'aps  it's  that." 

'*  No,  that  would  not  do  it.  Are  you  sure  " — she  was  very 
red  now,  and  flurried — '*  there  has  been  no — no — tea  made  this 
morning  ?  " 

Annie  understood. 

"  I  am  sure,  ma'am,"  said  she  quietly. 

"  Oh  !  it  didn't  matter  if  there  had.  It  is  only  that  I  like  to 
know." 

But  Annie  saw  by  her  mistress's  manner  that  she  was  not 
expected  to  have  anything  before  nine. 

Mrs.  Holt  never  locked  anything  up,  on  principle,  but  was 
incessantly  worrying  herself  and  her  husband  anent  something 
which  was  gone,  "going,"  or  "likely  to  go,"  until  she  had 
determined  beyond  any  sort  of  doubt  that  it  did  or  did  not  go. 
She  liked  to  leave  things  open  because  it  gave  her  the  chance 
of  proving  the  honesty  of  the  n^aid  in  charge.  She  was  not 
altogether  ungenerous,  but  while  she  would  give  away  the  value 
of  a  pound  she  resented  the  taking  of  a  pennyworth  without 
permission.  If  some  edible  nick-nack  happened  to  be 
overlooked  until  it  was  spoiled,  she  would  say : 

"Oh,  dear,  Emma,  why  not  have  eaten  it?  " 

On  the  other  hand,  should  Emma  happen  to  act  upon  that 
hint  and  eat  something  to  prevent  it  from  spoiling,  Mrs,  Holt 
would  be  sure  to  remember  that  edible  nick-nack  and  ask  for 
it,  after  which  she  would  flush  and  fidget  and  be  extra  dignified, 
by  way  of  conveying  a  reproof  she  had  not  the  courage  to  speak. 
Annie  very  quickly  understood,  and  conducted  herself 
accordingly. 


Ube  ifii'st  jfour  l^eacs  137 

At  first  she  owned  to  a  great  dread  of  the  master,  whose 
adamantine  "  firmness  "  she  had  had  impressed  upon  her,  but 
she  so(n  found  that  the  mild  little  man  was  the  happiest 
nonentity  alive,  who  would  no  more  have  dreamed  of  interfering 
with  his  busy  little  wife's  fads  than  he  would  have  thought 
of  trotting  off  "solus"  for  a  holiday.  It  is  true  he  once 
ventured  to  suggest  that  a  couple  of  spoonfuls  of  tea  be  left 
out  overnight  for  "  Emma's  "  breakfast,  but  the  suggestion  was 
provocative  of  such  an  indignant  remonstrance  that  he  instantly 
apologised  ;  also,  he  ventured  to  think  most  girls  expected  a 
night  out,  and  that  Emma  might  not  be  an  exception. 

His  old  lady  promptly  sat  upon  him. 

A  night  out  for  a  country  girl  of  tarnished  reputation — a 
night  out  in  London  ?  Oh,  what  was  Mr.  Holt  thinking  of 
that  he  should  try  to  thwart  his  wife  in  her  efforts  for  the 
girl's  good  ?  Did  she  not  go  on  errands  ?  Did  she  not  in 
that  way  obtain  plenty  of  fresh  air  ?  But  to  think  of  giving 
her  a  night  out  ?    Oh,  how  dreadful,  to  be  sure  ! 

"  Of  course,"  finished  the  little  woman  severely,  "  if  you 
wish  to  manage  the  girls,  or  to  alter  my  rules  for  this  girl  in 
particular,  no  matter  how  surprised  I  may  be,  I  must  give 
way ;  but  until  now  you  have  had  the  greatest  respect  for  my 
opinions,  and  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  way  in  which  I 
manage." 

Mr.  Holt  could  only  protest  that  his  admiration  of  his  wife 
was  vast  and  unshaken,  that  he  believed  her  to  be  the  kindest, 
most  indulgent,  and  most  wonderful  woman  in  Christendom ! 
What  more  could  any  man  say?  Simply  nothing,  sj  he 
reiterated  what  he  had  said  until  his  wife  was  mollified. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  injury,  "things  must  be 
coming  to  a  pretty  pass  if  I  am  to  be  set  down  for  a  severe 
mistiess  !  The  fact  is,  I  am  too  indulgent,  and  I  get  imposed 
upon.  Only  a  short  time  ago,  Mrs.  Sherman — Mrs.  John 
Sherman — was  here  to  tea,  and  the  way  in  which  Emma  (our 
last  Emma)  spoke  to  me  about  something  quite  took  her  by 
surprise. 

"  '  My  dear,'  she  said  to  me,  '  you  will  never  be  successful 
with  servants  while  you  allow  them  to  speak  to  you  in  that 
familiar  way.  Of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  praise  myself,  but 
I  will  say  that  I  have  no  trouble  whatever  with  my  servants.' 

"  I  said  I  knew  that,  as  indeed  I  did. 

"  *  Well,'  she  said,  '  I  will  tell  you  how  I  do  it.  I  set  my 
foot  down  from  the  very  beginning  upon  any  attempt  at  inter' 
course.     I  won't  be  spoken  to  except  upon  the  subject  of  work. 


138  Hnnie  2)eanc 

When  I  first  engaged  Maria — the  girl  I  have  now — she  tried  it 
on ;  they  all  do.  I  had  occasion  to  go  into  the  scullery  one 
morning,  where  she  was  doing  something  at  the  sink.  "  It's  a 
lovely  morning,  isn't  it,  ma'am  ? "  she  began.  I  made  no 
reply.     She  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

** '  "  Isn't  it  a  beautiful  morning,  ma'am  ?  "  she  said  again,  with 
all  the  impudence  imaginable.  I  went  on  picking  over  the 
fruit  for  preserving. 

'* ' "  Isn't  it  a  lovely  morning,  ma'am  ?  "  she  said,  as  if  she 
thought  I  might  be  deaf.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  set  the  tap 
running.  She  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  under- 
stood. That  girl  never  addresses  me  now  unless  she  wants  an 
answer.'  Now  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Holt,  what  you  would  say  to  me 
if  I  were  to  treat  a  fellow-creature  like  that  ?  " 

The  artful  little  man  patted  his  wife's  shoulder. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  gallantly,  "  pray  don't  quote  Mrs.  John 
Sherman.  Odious  woman ;  the  very  opposite  to  everything 
a  woman  should  be — the  very  opposite  to  you.  I  cannot 
have  you  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  Mrs.  John 
Sherman." 

"That  is  just  the  point,"  said  Mrs.  Holt  triumphantly. 
"  When  I  can  be  hard  and  exacting  and  inhuman,  my  servants 
will  give  me  a  good  name  ;  but  I  cannot  help  being  indulgent, 
so  I  get  imposed  upon.  My  poor  mother  always  said  I  should 
never  learn  to  keep  anyone  in  their  proper  place." 

And  that  old  personification  of  indulgence  trotted  off  to  the 
kitchen.  She  had  an  idea,  only  an  idea,  that  Emma  sat  down 
for  ten  minutes  in  the  afternoon  before  going  up  to  dress. 

As  time  went  on  Mrs.  Holt  began  to  realise  that  in  "Emma" 
she  had  something  approaching  the  ideal  of  her  domestic 
dreams  ;  and  the  more  she  realised  this,  the  more  she  put  her 
ideal  to  excellent  practical  uses.  Other  girls  had  shirked  the 
washing;  this  one  did  it,  and  did  it  well.  Other  girls  had 
entirely  misunderstood  the  treatment  of  the  necessary  flat-iron  ; 
in  the  hands  of  Emma  it  became  not  only  harmless,  but 
beneficent.  Other  girls  had  refused  to  benefit  by  Mrs.  Holt's 
practical  lectures  on  "  Gravy  as  it  is  versus  as  it  should  be," 
and  had  known  no  medium  between  potatoes  served  as  a  purit 
and  potatoes  served  as  an  easy-medium-for-acquiring indigestion; 
but  Emma's  gravy  soon  ceased  to  be  detectable  from  Mrs. 
Holt's  own,  and  her  potatoes  were  beyond  suspicion.  Her 
needlework,  too,  was  above  the  average,  and  Mrs.  Holt  was  a 
generous  contributor  to  bazaars ! 

"  The  girl  is  really  a  treasure,"  said  the  little  old  lady  to 


Ube  jfirst  font  l^ears  139 

herself.  "  I  only  hope  I  shall  not  find  out  something  dreadful 
about  her  before  long." 

For  Annie  herself  the  time  passed  not  all  unhappily.  Work 
she  did,  from  morning  to  night,  conscientiously,  willingly ;  for 
the  most  part  silently.  If  it  were  a  dull  life,  she  honestly  felt 
she  might  expect  nothing  better.  For  her  pleasures  she  had 
the  Book  the  Sisters  had  given  her,  and  the  consciousness  of 
doing  right ;  besides  which  there  was  ever  the  grateful  remem- 
brance of  Mr.  Netherwood's  parting  words  of  trust,  and  ever 
the  thought  of  the  child. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  was  fought  the  first  battle  for  a 
privilege  hitherto  withheld.  Annie  begged  for  one  night  off 
during  the  week,  that  she  might  see  the  child  more  frequently. 
Mrs.  Holt  flushed  very  red,  and  said  that  she  would  mention 
the  matter  to  Mr.  Holt,  but  that  she  had  not  the  slightest  hope 
of  obtaining  his  consent.  Annie  said  no  more  about  it  that 
week,  but  the  next,  with  her  customary  quietude  of  voice  and 
manner,  she  asked  again.  Mrs.  Holt  replied  that  she  had 
spoken  to  Mr.  Holt,  but  that  he  considered  the  asked-for 
privilege  quite  unnecessary. 

"  Could  I  have  an  afternoon  ?  "  urged  Annie.  "  I'd  hke  that 
better.  Baby  don't  alwis  seem  to  know  me,  an'  sometimes  he's 
gone  to  bed.  If  he  see  me  offener,  ma'am,  he  wouldn't 
forget." 

Mrs.  Holt  shook  her  head. 

Every  afternoon  brought  its  work,  she  said,  and  work  musi 
be  done. 

Annie  asked  no  more,  but  being  impressed  with  the  reason- 
able nature  of  her  request,  she  wrote  to  Sister  Elizabeth,  who 
in  her  turn  wrote  Mrs.  Holt  to  the  effect  that  unless  Annie 
Deane  were  allowed  to  visit  her  child  every  Wednesday  after- 
noon she  would  be  removed  from  Merryon  Square.  The  Sister 
further  added  that  the  girl's  wages  were,  in  her  opinion,  insuffi- 
cient for  the  amount  of  work  executed  by  her.  She  had  been 
in  receipt  of  three  shillings  a  week.  At  the  end  of  her  year 
would  Mrs.  Holt  make  it  four  ? 

Mrs.  Holt  sought  her  husband  and  asked  him  tragically  if 
he  thought  such  impudence  had  ever  been  heard  of  in  the 
memory  of  man  ?  Mr.  Holt  answered  cheerfully  that  perhaps 
the  like  Aadheen  heard  of,  but  that  he  was  not  quite  sure.  The 
old  lady  trotted  about,  and  called  Heaven  and  Earth  to  witness 
how  shamefully  she  was  imposed  upon  by  everybody. 

"  But,  my  love,"  interposed  the  little  man  soothingly,  "  after 
all,  it  amounts  to  this  :  Is  the  girl  worth  four  shillings  a  week. 


X40  Bnnie  Deane 

or  is  she  not  ?     As  a  matter  of  fact,  have  you  not  paid  much 
more  for  much  less  in  return  ?  " 

Instead  of  being  grateful  for  having  the  matter  thus  pre- 
sented to  her,  Mrs.  Holt  protested  that  the  last  straw  had  been 
inflicted  upon  the  back  of  the  proverbial  camel. 

"  Of  all  things,  this  is  the  hardest !  "  said  she.  "  To  think 
hat  girl  should  have  the  power  to  sow  discord  between  us." 

But  Annie's  wages  were  raised,  and  her  Wednesday  after- 
noons were  spent  with  the  child. 

"Although  I  must  say,  Emma,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  "that  I 
resent  the  Sister's  meddling.  In  future  you  and  I  must 
manage  our  own  affairs." 

•  ••••••• 

Annie's  second  year  in  Merryon  Square  wore  away  in  like 
fashion  to  the  first.  Had  she  chosen,  she  might  have  been  a 
power  in  the  house,  but  she  did  not  even  perceive  her  oppor- 
tunity. Silent,  diligent,  and  respectful,  patient  and  unreseniful 
under  petty  impositions  and  the  sting  of  trust  withheld,  she 
went  on  trying  so  to  work  out  her  own  salvation,  and  with 
that — Ms. 

Mrs.  Holt's  dread  of  discovering  something  bad  in  the  girl 
gave  place  to  a  dread  of  something  happening  to  deprive  her 
of  her  services. 

"  She  has  only  two  faults,"  the  old  lady  told  Mr.  Netherwood 
once,  "  she  is  *  deep '  and  very  miserly." 

"  Miserly  ?  "  repeated  he. 

•'Miserly.  She  had  some  money  when  she  came  here,  and  I 
am  sure  she  has  never  spent  a  shilling  since.  Of  course,  I  give 
her  little  things  in  the  way  of  clothes,  and  she  has  no  necessity 
to  buy  much ;  but  for  a  girl  of  nineteen  to  hoard  her  pence 
until  they  are  shillings,  and  then  to  put  them  in  the  Savings 
Bank,  seems  unnatural." 

Mr.  Netherwood  remarked  that  at  least  the  girl  had  wisdom 
on  her  side. 

But  wisely  or  unwisely,  Annie  saved  every  penny  available 
for  saving ;  mended,  patched,  and  contrived  until  her  modest 
wardrobe  was  something  to  marvel  at  for  ingenuity,  and  was 
only  daunted  by  shoe-leather,  which  lends  itself  not  to  the 
skill  of  the  repairing  amateur. 

As  to  her  motives  for  economy — was  there  not  the  child? 
and  at  the  end  of  two  yt.ars  had  he  not  to  be  paid  for?  Con- 
cerning that  there  was  a  consultation  between  iVlr.  Netherwood 
and  Sister  Elizabeth,  at  which  it  was  decided  that  they  should 


XLhc  first  four  2?eat0  «4» 

keep  the  child  free  of  expense  to  the  mother  until  she  was 
one-and-twenty. 

"  For,"  said  the  Sister,  "  I  certainly  have  great  hope  of  her. 
She  is  a  splendid  servant,  and  might  easily  be  doing  better 
than  she  is.  But  for  the  safely  which  lies  in  quietude  and 
plenty  of  hard  work,  I  should  remove  her.  Mrs.  Holt  is 
kind,  but  exacting — a  sort  of  unintentional  Shylock.  The  girl 
has  been  there  two  years ;  I  must  see  that  she  has  a  rise." 

After  which  there  was  another  squabble  in  Merryon  Square, 
but  Annie's  bankbook  looked  up. 

Then  the  months  rolled  by,  completing  the  third  year ;  and 
again,  completing  the  fourth. 

Annie  Deane  was  a  woman  of  twenty-one,  with  a  bright-eyed 
little  laddie  of  four  to  call  her  mother,  and  to  touch  her  grey 
life  with  the  reflection  of  a  brightness  it  had  never  known. 

For  her  life  was  monotonous  enough.  Although  she  was  a 
pretty  woman,  no  man  fell  in  love  with  her ;  although  as  time 
went  on  she  went  her  way  through  the  busy  streets  at  all  times 
of  the  day  or  night,  when  her  business  demanded,  no  one 
molested  her,  nor  made  her  the  heroine  of  any  little  romance. 
When  she  rose  in  the  morning  to  face  another  day,  and  when, 
tired  out,  she  went  to  bed  at  night,  she  had  but  the  one  pur- 
pose in  front  of  her — to  work  out  her  own  salvation,  that  the 
sin  of  her  ruin  might  not  be  laid  at  that  man's  door,  and  to 
bring  up  his  boy  so  that  if  ever  they  met  he  might  not  be 
ashamed  of  him 

This  was  the  aim  and  purpose  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  SHADOW   ON  THE  TURF 

A.NNIE  always  remembered  the  close  of  her  fifth  year  in 
Merryon  Square,  because  it  brought  with  it  a  break  in  the 
monotony  of  things. 

"Five  years  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  as  she  entered  the 
kitchen  that  sunny  July  morning.  "Dear  me,  Emma,  we're 
getting  quite  old  friends,  aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  soberly. 

"  And  I  hope  we  shall  be  friends  for  another  five,"  quoth 
the  old  lady  briskly. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

"  Here  is  a  little  present  for  you,"  holding  out  half-a- 
sovereign.  "  I  know  you  would  rather  have  money  than  any- 
thing else.  Be  sure  you  do  not — a — not  mention  it  in  any 
way,  because  Mr.  Holt  thinks  me  so  terribly  extravagant." 

Annie  said  "  Thank  you,  ma'am  "  again,  and  followed  Mrs. 
Holt  upstairs  with  the  tray. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  Holt  shuffled  stealthily  into  the  kitchen, 
with  a  boot  in  each  hand. 

"  I  will  have  these  boots  this  morning,  Emma,"  said  he,  in  a 
state  of  suppressed  agitation ;  "  take  them  quick.  Feel  in  this 
one — no,  in  this  one — there's  something  for  you.  Don't 
mention  it  to  Mrs.  Holt — she  will  think  me  extravagant,  and 
don't  drop  it — it's  half-a-sovereign." 

Having  jerked  out  which,  he  shuffled  oflF  with  a  look  of 
unconcern  on  his  merry  little  face  that  would  not  have  deceived 
a  baby. 

Left  alone  in  the  kitchen,  Annie  actually  laughed. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  assisted  at  small  domestic 
deceptions  of  the  kind,  but  they  invariably  made  her  uncom- 
fortable. As  she  put  the  coins  away  she  wished  the  givers  had 
been  honest  with  each  other;  for  the  touch  of  dishonesty  made 
those  coins  worth  less  than  the  ones  she  worked  for.  Perhaps 
that  thought  made  her  less  diligent,  perhaps  overworked 
Nature  pined  for  a  rest ;  be  that  as  it  may,  Annie  Deane  stood 

X43 


zrbe  Sbat)ow  on  tbc  ZTurt  143 

idly  at  hei  kitchen  window,  then,  still  idly,  opened  it,  thereby 
admitting  the  scent  of  the  jessamine  which  straggled  over  the 
dining-room  balcony  above. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  Berkshire-bred  girl  to  herself,  "  how  I'd 
like  to  take  Lin  over  the  fields  into  the  wood  this  mornin'  1 
My  dear  little  boy  what's  never  seen  the  country  in  his  life." 

For  once  work  went  hardly  with  her.  She  was  possessed  by 
a  longing  for  the  old  fir  woods,  for  the  pine-needles  ankle-deep 
underfoot,  for  the  furze  and  bracken,  for  the  once-despised 
wild  flowers,  whose  hiding-places  she  knew ;  for  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  country  life,  common  enough  once,  and  so  of  little 
value,  but  hallowed  now  by  memory,  and  sanctified  by  the 
glamour  which  surrounds  the  irrecoverable. 

"  I'll  go ! "  she  burst  out  suddenly,  *'  I'll  go  !  I  don't  care 
about  this  money.  It  won't  make  much  diff  rence  in  the  end, 
so  I'll  spend  it  to  show  Lin  the  woods  and  the  flowers  an' 
things,  if  it's  on'y  for  a  day." 

She  took  Mrs.  Holt's  breath  away  by  announcing  that  she 
wanted  to  go  down  into  Berkshire,  and  to  take  the  boy. 

*'  What  an  extraordinary  thing  ! "  cried  the  old  lady.  "  Oh, 
Emma,  you  don't  mean  to  come  back.  Now  I  see  what  you 
have  been  saving  up  for." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  means  to  come  back  the  same  night." 

*'  Ridiculous  !  Just  think  of  the  expense.  Why,  you  would 
have  to  work  for  a  month  to  make  it  up.  I  must  ask  Mr. 
Holt.  I  am  sure  he  will  advise  you  not  to  waste  money  in 
that  way." 

But  the  old  man  said : 

"  I  will  look  at  the  railway  bills  this  morning  as  I  pass  a 
station.     There  may  be  excursions." 

It  happened  that  there  were  excursions,  and  that  the  fares 
were  reasonable.  So  one  glorious  morning,  while  London  was 
still  rubbing  its  eyes,  Annie  trudged  to  St.  Saviour's  Schools 
for  the  purpose  of  fetching  the  boy,  and  long  before  nine  was 
travelling  towards  Berkshire. 

Lin  knelt  upon  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  flattening  his 
sharp  little  nose  against  the  window-pane,  while  his  mother, 
stirred  more  deeply  than  she  had  been  for  years,  watched 
the  flying,  sun-steeped,  shadow-haunted  landscape  with  eyes 
still  beautiful  with  youth's  inimitable  beauty.  For  so  long 
life  had  seemed  stagnant  with  her,  but  that  morning's  rush 
through  the  flower-starred  meadows,  by  belts  and  clumps 
of  shaded  wind-tossed  trees,  by  rippling  sunht  streams 
and   swelling    hill-sides,   down   which    the    scurrying   cloud- 


144  Buttle  S)eaue 

shadows  ran  races,  woke  the  sense  of  enjoyment  within 
her,  making  her  young  again.  She  put  one  arm  about  the 
boy,  and  held  him  closely.  Her  boy !  her  boy  and — his ! 
As  her  youth  woke  in  her,  the  love  which  had  made  and 
marred  it  woke  too  with  redoubled  strength  and  intensity; 
she  seemed  to  be  travelling  back  again  to  that  solitary  summer 
of  his  making,  which  at  his  bidding  had  darkened  into  winter, 
wherein  was  no  light  of  the  sun.  Her  sense  of  association 
with  him  rather  strengthened  than  diminished  as  time  went 
by,  nor  could  the  silence  which  wrapped  him  about  kill  her 
conviction  that  the  chain  of  events  would  end  by  bringing 
them  face  to  face.  Not  that  she  dreamed  of  any  purely  selfish 
benefit  consequent  upon  such  renewed  intercourse ;  she  had 
by  this  time  made  out  enough  of  men  and  their  ways  to 
abandon  all  thought  of  personal  reparation. 

*' He'd  never  think  much  o'  me"  she  would  say  to  herself 
cheerfully;  "that  ain't  to  be  expected.  But  he  wus  kind- 
hearted,  an'  he'd  take  to  the  boy  if  on'y  I  can  manage  to  bring 
him  up  so  as  he  wouldn't  be  ashamed  of  him." 

It  was  barely  half-past  ten  when  the  train  steamed  into  the 
little-used  station  of  Annie's  native  village.  No  one  but  she 
and  her  boy  alighted  there,  and  she  felt  conspicuous.  She  was 
wearing  a  close  bonnet,  round  which,  for  concealment's  sake, 
she  had  tied  an  old  veil  of  Mrs.  Holt's,  but  the  sleepy  station- 
master  looked  her  up  and  down  as  he  broke  her  ticket  in  two 
and  gave  her  the  return  half ;  also  he  walked  out  of  his  little 
shelter  to  watch  her  down  the  road. 

"  Now,  there  goes  that  gal  o'  Deane's,"  said  he  to  himself. 
"If  it  isn't,  I  never  see  her.  Often  I've  wondered  what 
become  o'  that  gal,  an',  sure  enough,  that's  her." 

Annie  walked  briskly  on,  feeling  sure  that  the  man  had 
recognised  her,  and  being  much  agitated  in  consequence. 

Lin  was  in  high  glee,  chasing  a  butterfly — such  a  brilliant 
red-and-black  thing  as  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life  ;  but  when 
it  fluttered  to  a  big  marsh-mallow  leaf  and  settled  there,  he 
held  his  open  hand  back  and  let  it  alone. 

"It'd  be  a  pity  to  touch  it,  wouldn't  it,  mother?"  he 
whispered.  "It's  out  for  a  holiday,  like  us.  We  wouldn't 
like  some  great  big  thing  to  come  and  pick  us  up,  would  we  ?  " 

Annie  smiled. 

"Let  it  alone,"  she  said,  "it's  hurtin'  nobody,  Lin,  and 
God  made  it." 

Lin  nodded  as  he  watched  the  butterfly  flutter  away.  He 
was  used  to  this  compassion  for  dumb  things  on  the  part  of 


Ubc  Sba^ow  on  tbe  Uurt  i4S 

the  quiet  mother  who  so  seldom  spoke  her  thoughts  to 
anybody  but  him. 

"We're  goin'  through  this  gate  into  the  wood,"  she  said 
presently.  "  Never  mind  them  things,  dear ;  we'll  get  lots  of 
better  ones  in  here." 

She  pushed  the  gate  wide  for  Lin  to  pass  through.  He 
clung  to  her  as  she  followed  him. 

"  Can  anybody  turn  us  out  ?  "  inquired  he  under  his  breath. 

"I  don't  think  they  will,  dearie.  I  don't  suppose  we'll 
meet  a  soul." 

Nor  did  they,  though  they  wandered  about  the  wood  for 
hours,  sometimes  almost  lost  in  the  dark  heart  of  it,  some- 
times coming  to  the  edge  of  open  country,  and  again  returning 
until  only  the  high  hedge  divided  them  from  the  main  road. 
About  noon  they  ate  the  lunch  Annie  had  brought  with  them, 
and  then  the  child  stretched  himself  on  the  moss  and  the 
bracken,  and  went  to  sleep. 

His  mother  sat  and  dreamed,  with  a  tranquil  smile  on  her 
face,  and  in  her  heart  the  hush  of  a  great  content.  To  a 
country-bred  girl,  who  had  been  working  for  five  years  in  the 
underground  kitchens  of  a  London  house,  it  was  something 
like  to  heaven. 

Lin  woke  up  refreshed,  to  find  himself  in  a  veritable  Land 
of  Enchantment.  For  a  moment  he  thought  that  mother  and 
he  must  be  dead  and  transported  to  the  heaven  they  had  told 
him  about  at  school.  But  he  quickly  remembered  that  this 
heaven  was  not  of  the  eternal  sort — was,  in  fact,  to  be  enjoyed 
for  one  day  only,  so  he  sat  up  and  opened  his  bright  eyes  wide 
to  take  it  all  in.  To  look  up  through  the  pines  to  the  golden 
cloud-palaces  above,  to  catch  the  flash  of  a  wood-pigeon's  silver 
wing  in  the  light,  to  hear  the  tender  coo  of  the  beautiful  thing 
as  it  hid  itself  in  the  dark  trees,  or  the  shirper  note  of  a  startled 
song-bird  resting  at  "  high-noon,"  to  see  a  furry  brown  squirrel 
run  along  a  tree-branch  close  by  and  disappear  before  one  could 
well  say  he  was  there — all  these  things  were  wonders  to  the 
city-born  child,  and  took  away  from  him  his  wonted  desire  to 
chatter.  Who  could  chatter  in  the  solemn  hush  of  those 
towering,  moveless  pines  ? 

And  when  he  was  quite  tired  of  looking  up,  there  was  so 
much  to  be  seen  by  looking  down.  Lin  made  himself  a  fairy 
dweUing  of  dry  fir-branches  and  bracken,  carpeted  it  with  moss 
and  roofed  it  in  with  fir-cones.  Never  was  child  so  delighted 
as  was  he  with  the  everyday  surroundings  of  the  young  rustic 
Annie's  eyes  filled  as  she  watched  him. 

K 


146  Bnnie  Deane 

"We  never  used  to  think  nothing  o'  the  woods,"  she 
thought,  "  when  we  was  youngsters ;  we'd  rather  play  wi'  the 
dust  an'  stones  in  the  road.  Oh,  how  I'd  Hke  mother  to  see 
him ;  he's  such  a  pretty  little  child,  an'  he's  got  a  bettermost 
look  about  him,  quits  diflTrent  to  our  Ben  an'  Ted  an'  Dick.  I 
would  like  'em  to  see  him.  I  meant  to  go  when  I  started  ; 
but  now  I'm  so  close,  I  dursent !  If  they'd  ever  said  anythink 
about  bein'  pleased  to  see  me  it  wouldn't  look  so  hard,  but 
they  never  has.  I  couldn't  take  Lin  to  let  him  see  I  wusn't 
wanted." 

Still,  as  the  day  wore  on  her  hankering  after  that  cottage 
midway  up  the  village  street  was  only  kept  in  check  by  the 
doubt  of  the  reception  its  inmates  would  accord  her. 

"  Sure  they'd  be  pleased  to  see  me,"  she  mused  wistfully. 
"  I  don't  want  nothing  of  'em,  an'  I'm  goin'  back  to-night. 
Still,  there's  Alice  old  enough  to  understand,  an'  p'r'aps  mother 
wouldn't  know  what  to  say.  It'd  break  my  heart  if  I  took  the 
ciiild  there  and  didn't  get  no  welcome." 

So,  try  as  she  might,  she  could  not  summon  sufficient 
courage  to  take  her  beyond  the  wide  turf-ride  which  skirted 
the  wood.  Each  time  she  heard  someone  coming  she  hurried 
the  boy  back  into  hiding.  This  naturally  startled  him,  made 
him  apprehensive  of  he  knew  not  what,  and  caused  him  to  tire 
of  the  quiet  place.  Also,  he  grew  thirsty.  All  the  milk  in 
the  ginger-beer  bottle  was  gone,  and  Annie  had  thrown  the 
bottle  away.  Some  bread  and  butter  remained  and  an  odd 
remnant  of  cake,  but  Lin  wanted  neither.  He  was  not  fretful, 
nor  importunate,  but  he  was  getting  tired,  had  had  enough  of 
the  country  for  one  day,  and  pined  in  secret  for  his 
« tea." 

"  Couldn't  we  go  and  find  some  water  ?  "  he  said,  with  a 
child's  tired  wriggle,  "  I  am  so  thirsty  ! " 

Annie  stopped,  and  her  colour  mounted  high. 

"  Come  along,  darlin',"  she  said  suddenly,  "  you  shall  have 
a  drink.     We'll  go  and  find  one." 

The  child's  face  brightened,  and  he  trotted  briskly  by  his 
mother's  side.  She  crossed  the  turf-path,  went  down  a  grassy 
slope,  lifted  Lin  over  a  wire  fence,  and  got  through  herself, 
then  crossed  a  wide  meadow  to  a  half-open  gate. 

"  Now,  don't  be  frightened,"  she  said,  in  a  tremor  of 
excitement ;  "  I'm  going  to  stand  here  while  you  runs  down  to 
that  little  house  there  an'  ast  them  for  a  drink  o'  water." 

"  Which  house  ?  "  said  the  child  doubtfully. 

"  The  little  white  one,  with  the  clean  doorstep.     The  door's 


Ubc  Sba^ow  on  tbe  XTurf  147 

pretty  sure  to  be  open,  but  if  it  isn't  you've  on'y  to  knock — 
they're  safe  to  come." 

Too  thirsty  to  be  shy,  Lin  ran  across  the  road,  halted,  and 
sidled  along  to  the  door. 

"  Knock  if  it's  shut,"  called  his  mother  eagerly. 

Lin  knocked,  and  was  seen  by  Annie  to  step  over  the 
threshold,  after  which  he  entirely  disappeared.  What  his 
mother  endured  for  the  next  few  minutes  she  could  not  have 
told.  What  was  the  child  doing?  Were  they  asking  him 
questions  ?  If  they  asked  him  his  name  and  he  told  them  it 
was  Deane,  would  they  guess,  and  so  come  out  to  look  for 
her?  She  stood,  half-hidden  by  the  hedge,  wondering  why 
the  boy  was  so  long.  If  he  saw  nobody  about,  would  he  go 
through  the  little  "  back-house  "  into  the  garden  ?  And  oh ! 
horrors  1  would  he  tumble  down  the  well  ?  Her  heart  stood 
still  at  that  thought,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  rushing 
across  the  road  when  Lin  reappeared  at  the  door,  followed 
by  Mrs.  Deane,  who  was  laughing  as  she  wiped  her  hands  on 
her  apron. 

"  Look,"  said  Lin,  in  his  childish  Cockney  treble,  "  there's 
mother  up  the  road  by  that  gate.     I  told  you  I  wasn't  alone." 

Mrs.  Deane  laughed  again,  watched  the  boy  as  he  ran  across 
to  the  half-hidden  figure  by  the  gate,  and  called  "Good-bye" 
as  he  reached  it. 

"  Good-bye,"  responded  Lin,  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  I 
said  '  Thank  you,'  didn't  I  ?  Mother's  afraid  I  forgot.  Good- 
bye." 

Annie  sHd  through  the  gate  and  pushed  it  "home."  She 
was  afraid  to  face  the  road  to  fasten  it  properly,  for  her  mother 
still  stood  at  the  open  door. 

"  I  had  a  nice  drink  out  of  the  well,"  said  Lin,  as  he  trotted 
over  the  meadow.  "  I  saw  them  pull  it  up  in  the  bucket,  and 
wasn't  it  cold  ?  What  made  me  such  a  long  time  gone  ?  I 
went  with  a  funny  old  man  to  see  the  little  pigs  next  door. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  have  pigs  in  my  garden,  'less  it  was  pigs  th***- 
didn't  smell.     These  did,  dreadful !  " 

Annie  hurried  the  child  across  the  meadow  with  an  odd 
sensation  of  being  followed.  At  the  fence  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  wood,  she  ventured  to  look  back.  There  was  not  si  soul 
in  sight.     Her  heart  slowed  down. 

"  Did  they  ast  you  who  you  wus  ?  " 

"  They  asked  me  my  name." 

"  Wlut  did  you  tell  them  ?  " 

"  I  said  it  was  Lin." 


148  Bnnie  2>eane 

**  Did  anybody  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  The  woman  did,  and  so  did  the  funny  old  man.  He  said 
I  was  a  nice  little  gentleman,  and  spoke  up  according  to  my 
size." 

The  foolish  mother  smiled  with  sudden  pleasure. 

"  A  little  gentleman ! "  This  was  what  his  boy  should  be 
if  any  exertion  of  hers  could  bring  it  about, 

** Didn't  you  see  anybody  else  there? " 

"  A  liitle  girl  just  bigger  than  me." 

"  That  must  have  bin  Kate.  No,  she's  eight  now,  or  nine, 
p'r'aps ;  it  must  have  bin  Maggie." 

Lin  looked  puzzled. 

"  Do  you  know  the  people  in  that  house,  mother  ?  "  said  he, 
Icriking  up  at  her  quiet  face. 

"  Yes,  dear.  The  woman  what  come  to  the  door  wi'  you  wus 
my  mother,  an'  that's  where  I  lived  when  I  wus  little  like  you." 

"  And  who  was  the  little  man  with  his  legs  tied  up  ?  The 
little  man  that  took  me  to  see  the  pigs  ?" 

"  My  father,  dearie,  an*  your  gran'father." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  go  in  with  me  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  without  answering. 

The  boy,  never  tiresomely  inquisitive,  considered;  but  his 
consideration  led  to  nothing  more  important  than  the  discovery 
of  a  private  and  personal  distaste  for  little  old  men  who  wore 
red  handkerchiefs  round  their  necks,  and  tied  up  their  legs 
with  string.  The  two  presently  sat  down  to  eat  the  remainder 
of  their  provisions,  then  Annie  took  the  boy  on  her  lap  and 
wiled  away  the  time  by  telling  him  about  the  rabbits  that 
hopped  about  in  the  wood  when  the  sun  had  gone  to  bed ; 
about  the  yellow  flags  that  grew  farther  up  the  stream,  whose 
ceaseless  rippling  wash  they  could  hear  from  where  they  sat ; 
about  the  coops  of  young  pheasants  that  were  enclosed  in  wire 
netting  to  keep  people  away  from  where  they  were;  and 
pt  esently  as  she  was  telling  him  how  thickly  the  nuts  grew  on 
the  belt  of  hazels  "just  over  there,"  there  was  a  sudden 
clucking,  then  a  whizz  and  a  "whir-r!"  And  over  against 
thtm  a  glorious  cock-pheasant  rose,  to  sail  away  down  the  red 
stream  of  the  sunset  light,  glittering  and  gleaming  like  a  bird 
all  set  with  jewels.  The  wood  was  astir  with  hidden  life.  The 
coo  of  the  pigeons  sounded  drowsily  now  and  then,  while  the 
birds  woke  up  to  say  good-night  to  the  departing  sun,  and  the 
bushes  rustled  as  bird  or  animal  scudded  through.  This 
mysterious  stir  only  served  to  accentuate  the  loneliness  of  the 
place,  and  when  the  great  golden  feathers  in  the  sky  began  to 


Zbc  Sba^ow  on  tbe  Znvt  U9 

turn  red,  and  the  evening  breeze  to  sigh  through  tbe  bracken 
and  rustle  the  long  grasses  by  the  streamlet's  edge,  Lin  began 
to  get  frightened,  and  to  cling  to  his  mother,  listening. 

"  It's  time  we  wus  makin'  for  the  station,"  she  said  cheerily, 
noticing  his  frightened  look.  "  We  shan't  meet  nobody  likely 
lo  know  me  now,  so  I  tl.inks  we'll  go  by  the  road.  We'll  have 
to  turn  back  a  bit  as  far  as  the  gate,  but  it's  easier  walkin'  than 
i:  is  in  here,  what  wi'  the  roots  an'  the  brambles." 

"  Let  us  go  by  the  road,"  said  Lin,  only  intent  upon  getting 
out  of  the  wood. 

They  turned  at  once  and  made  for  the  gate  leading  to  the 
highway.  As  they  walked  on,  keeping  close  to  the  hedge,  for 
it  was  easier  "  going  "  there,  Annie  could  tell  that  someone  was 
walking  close  by  in  the  road,  and  hung  back  a  little  to 
let  that  other  wayfarer  get  ahead.  At  the  gate  she  and 
Lin  would  turn  to  the  right  for  the  station,  while  the 
man  in  the  road — it  was  a  man,  by  the  step — would  pro- 
bably continue  his  walk  to  the  village.  In  this  way  she 
would  escape  observation.  Knowing  that  she  had  plenty  of 
time,  she  halted  under  pretence  of  tying  Lin's  shoes  more 
tightly,  thought  she  had  given  the  man  in  the  road  time  to  get 
past  the  gate,  and  then  walked  on,  with  Lin  still  clinging  to 
bfT,  silent  and  nervous.  In  another  five  minutes  they  were  at 
.he  end  of  the  dividing  hedge.  The  big  wooden  gate  stood 
open,  and  across  the  stretch  of  reddened  turf  to  the  left  was 
flung  a  huge,  grotesque  shadow — the  shadow  of  the  figure  of  a 
man.     Lin  saw  it  instantly  and  hung  back,  trembling. 

"  Oh,  look  there  !  "  he  whispered,  pointing  to  it.  "  What  is 
that,  mother  ?  " 

"  On'y  a  gentleman,  dear,"  she  whispered  back,  keeping 
close  to  the  sheltering  hedge,  for  she  was  foolishly  startled 
herself. 

"  Is  it  a  gianf,  mother  ?    It's  not  like  a  man." 

"  Nonsense,  darlin'.  It's  the  sun  bein'  low  that  makes  his 
shadow  big  like  that.  He's  standin'  still  in  the  road.  Keep 
quiet.     We'll  stop  here  till  he've  passed  on." 

But  she  counted  twenty  by  the  loud  beating  of  her  heart, 
while  the  child  stood  clinging  to  her  skirts  in  fear,  and  still  the 
dark  shadow  stretched  up  the  reddened  turf — immovable. 

"  I  dursent  show  out  till  he've  gone,"  thought  Annie,  picking 
up  the  boy,  who  had  begun  to  whimper.  "  P'r'aps  he's  a  tramp, 
an'  heard  us  comin'  along,  an'  he's  waitin'  to  see  who  'tis.  If 
he  stands  there  long,  or  comes  into  the  woods,  whatever  will  I 
do?" 


ISO  Bnnie  S>eane 

But  as  she  watched  the  shadow  wavered,  swayed,  moved 
slowly  slantwise  across  the  gate  to  the  hedge  on  the  other  side, 
then  passed  right  out  of  sight,  and  very  soon  the  accompanying 
footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance.  Annie  turned  into 
the  road  and  ran,  with  Lin  held  tightly  in  her  arms.  When 
she  ventured  to  put  him  down  and  look  behind  there  was  not 
a  human  being  in  sight. 

"  There ! "  she  said,  laughing  at  herself  as  well  as  at  Lin, 
"  we're  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  the  station  now,  an'  I 
think  the  train's  due  in  little  more  than  that.  Don't  be  silly, 
darlin'.  It  was  nothink  but  a  man  standin'  in  the  road."  But 
the  child  could  tell  that  she  had  been  startled  too,  and  nothing 
short  of  the  station  lights  put  him  at  his  ease. 

They  slipped  into  the  dark  shelter  on  the  platform  to  wait, 
and  although  the  station-master  walked  past  several  times,  he 
could  not  feel  quite  certain  that  the  woman  in  the  thick  veil 
was  Dan'l  Deane's  missing  daughter.  The  train  was  not  over- 
full, and  Annie,  lifting  the  boy  so  as  to  hide  her  own  face^ 
entered  a  compartment  quickly  and  sat  back  in  a  corner. 

Lin  fell  asleep  almost  as  soon  as  the  train  was  in  motion. 
Annie  held  him  tightly  while  she  watched  the  flying  landscape, 
watched  the  twilight  and  the  moonlight  struggle  for  mastery, 
while  one  pale  green  star  hung  trembling  over  the  dark  belt 
of  firs  which  hid  her  native  village.  She  had  re-visited  the  old 
scenes  after  an  absence  of  five  long  years,  but  had  not  had  the 
courage  to  find  out  whether  or  not  the  door  of  the  old  home 
was  still  shut  against  her. 

"I'd  have  gone  if  I'd  bin  alone,"  she  thought  sadly;  "but 
how  could  I  go,  an'  take  the  boy  ?  " 

A  little  later  she  was  rumbling  through  the  stuffy  London 
streets  in  a  stuffier  London  'bus,  gently  trying  to  wake  Lin,  who 
was  heavy,  and  had  sadly  tired  even  her  work-strengthened 
arms.  But  Lin  was  under  the  influence  of  country  air,  and 
would  not  wake,  so  with  a  basket  on  one  arm  and  a  child  in 
both,  this  jovial  holiday-maker  stumbled  out  of  a  'bus  in  the 
Camden  Road,  and  turned  from  there  into  Merryon  Square. 
Lin's  school  being  at  the  other  side  of  London,  he  was  to  stay 
with  his  mother  for  that  night.  Once  or  twice  she  stopped  to 
rest  her  arms  by  putting  one  foot  on  a  friendly  doorstep  and 
shifting  the  sharp  handle  of  the  basket,  but  at  last  she  shut  the 
area-gate  of  No.  19  behind  her,  and  cautiously  descended  the 
dark  flight  of  steps. 

The  old  people  had  gone  to  bed,  leaving  a  tiny  jet  of  gas 
burning,  but  nothing  by  way  of  supper.     Annie  only  stopped 


Ube  SDaC>ow  on  tbc  Unxt  15* 

to  rub  her  arms  and  to  lock  the  area-door,  then  she  carried 
Lin  up  to  bed.  She  was  very  soon  beside  him,  tired  out  and 
decidedly  hungry,  with  her  one  holiday  in  five  years  at  an  end, 
but  happy  enough  for  all  that.  The  boy  had  had  a  long  day 
in  the  country,  had  seen  the  woods  and  the  fields,  and  heard 
the  birds  sing. 

When  all  was  still,  and  Annie  was  just  falling  asleep,  Lin — 
child-like — turned  and  woke  up. 
"Are  we  home,  mother?" 

"  Yes,  darlin',"  said  she,  afraid  he  was  going  to  ask  for  some- 
thing to  eat.     "Go  to  sleep,  there's  a  dear,  becos'  mother's 
very  tired,  an'  have  got  to  get  up  so  early  to-morrow  mornin'." 
Lin  lay  quiet  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  whispered  fearfully : 
"But  that  was  a  dig  shadow,  wasn't  it,  mother?" 
And,  strange  to  say,  of  all  the  sights  and  sounds  with  which 
the  child  had  that  day  made  acquaintance,  the  memory  of  tliat 
dark  shadow,  thrown  by  the  setting  sun  upon  the  turf,  was  the 
memory  which  stayed  with  him — which  made  upon  him  a  deep 
impression  never  to  be  quite  effaced. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

**YOU  HAVE  AN   ELDER   SISTER?" 

And  yet  it  was  nothing  more  uncanny  than  the  shadow  of  an 
ordinary  mortal,  who  was  clad  in  ordinary  fashion,  and  who — 
ii  appearance  goes  for  anything — was  a  gentleman.  Anyway, 
le  was  a  lover  of  beauty,  wherever  he  chanced  to  find  it,  and 
he  found  it  that  night  in  the  stretch  of  sunlit  sward  where  it 
gently  sloped  upward  to  the  fir-clad  hill.  A  hen  jhtasant  was 
strutting  about,  and  he  stood  to  watch  her,  thinking  what  a 
pretty  thing  she  was,  and  all  unmoved  by  any  desire  for 
slaughter.  But  then  he  had  no  gun,  had  nothing  more 
destructive  than  a  stick,  which  was  of  the  business-like  order, 
and  had  evidently  seen  some  service. 

He  had  heard  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  other  side  of  the 
thick  hedge,  but  had  lost  them  again;  and  when  the  pheasant, 
rising,  passed  out  of  sight,  he  resumed  his  walk  to  the  village, 
quite  unaware  of  the  effect  his  shadow  had  had  upon  the 
w.  man  and  child  standing  in  hiding  but  a  few  feet  away.  At 
the  entranre  to  the  village  street  he  halted  to  look  about  him, 
then  went  on  afresh  until  he  came  to  the  inn.  He  remem- 
bered the  inn,  having  some  years  before  spent  a  few  nights 
there.  He  went  in  now,  had  half  a  bottle  of  soda-water 
and  some  brandy,  noted  that  the  house  had  changed 
hnnds,  chatted  for  five  minutes  or  so  with  the  landlady, 
found  she  knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  humble  people  about 
her,  and  drifted  out  again  to  the  twilight  street,  presently  finding 
himself  at  the  end  of  it.  Here  he  stopped,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  turning  back,  when  the  sound  of  a  blacksmith's 
hammer  rang  out  sharply  close  at  hand.  He  turned  on  his  heel 
and  made  for  the  forge,  which  lay  to  his  left,  with  a  sloping 
green  in  front,  and  the  blacksmith's  cottage  at  the  side  of  it. 
Evidently  the  last  habitation  in  the  village,  for  the  high  road 
stretched  away  beyond  without  a  break.  A  spick-and-span 
cottage  was  the  blacksmith's,  with  newly-painted  door  and 
windows,  with  white  curtains  upstairs  and  down,  and  a  general 
air  of  prosperity  everywhere.     In  the  doorway  stood  a  girl,  who 

152 


"13ou  t)ave  an  BIber  Sister?"  153 

turned  her  head  to  watch  the  stranger  as  he  passed.  He  gave 
her  a  keen  glance,  then  another,  and  yet  another.  In  two 
minutes  he  re-passed.  Then  he  stopped,  took  a  cigarette  froni 
his  case,  went  across  the  green  to  the  cottage  door,  lifted  his 
hat,  and  asked  the  girl  in  the  doorway  to  give  him  a  h'ght.  It 
was  done  with  the  ease  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to  take 
his  welcome  wherever  he  chooses  to  go — done  without  a  trace 
of  hesitation  or  fussiness.  The  girl  disappeared,  staying  inside 
the  house  long  enough  to  let  her  risen  colour  cool  down,  then 
returned  to  the  door  with  a  box  of  matches. 

"  Thank  you  !  " 

He  struck  a  match,  lit  the  cigarette,  then,  holding  it  between 
the  second  and  third  fingers  of  his  ungloved  hand,  said 
pleasantly  : 

"  Is  your  name  Deane  ?  " 

"  It  was  Deane,  sir,  but — " 

"Ah!"  he  flashed  a  look  at  her  left  hand  and  smiled;  "but 
it  is  not  Deane  now,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I've  been  married  three  months." 

He  nodded. 

" Is  your  father  still  living  here? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  they  lives  at  the  further  end  of  the  village — the 
last  house  but  three  you  come  to." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  particularly;  in  fact,  I  want  a 
little  information  which  I  would  much  rather  obtain  from 
someone  else — from  anyone  ^%^,  indeed,  who  is  in  a  position 
to  give  it  me.     You  have  an  elder  sister  ?  " 

The  girl's  manner  altered  at  once.  She  suddenly  stiffened 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  she — a — married  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"I  thought  she  married,  say,  between  five  and  six  years 

"  No.  She  left  here  for  good  about  that  time,  but  she  didn  t 
marry"  with  a  touch  of  emphasis  on  the  last  word,  ai)parently 
meant  to  convey  that  for  such  an  one  as  that  elder  sister 
marriage  was  an  unattainable  dignity. 

The  stranger  put  his  cigarette  between  his  lips  just  long 
enough  to  keep  it  alight,  then  said : 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  she  went  away  ?  " 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  more  stiffly  still,  and  averted  her 
face  from  her  questioner's  keen  eyes. 

"  Well,  sir,  perhaps  I  might  if  I  knew  what  right  you  had  to 


154  Hnnie  Deane 

come  and  ask  me  about  such  a  thing,  or  if  it  was  a  fit  subject 
for  anyone  to  talk  of  to  a  stranger." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  rebuff,  only  spoke  more  earnestly. 

"  I  know  it  is  an  odd  subject  for  a  chance  conversation,  but 
upon  my  honour  I  have  no  wish  to  offer  you  insult.  I  am  not 
a  boy,  and  you  are  a  married  woman.  I  asked  you  a  question, 
an  important  question.  If  you  will  not  answer  it,  where  is 
someone  who  will  ?  " 

She  coloured  with  annoyance  at  the  stranger's  lack  of  interest 
in  her  as  a  woman — as  a  pretty  woman.     She  answered  nothing. 

"  Can  I  see  your  husband  ?  " 

"  Jim's  gone  to  Readin',"  she  said,  "  and  won't  be  home  till 
past  ten.     I  daresay  you  could  see  him  in  the  morning." 

"  Jim  ! "  The  stranger  started,  repeating  the  name  to  him- 
self. Jim — Jim  what  ?  Why,  of  a  surety,  Drake  !  Was 
not  Annie's  old  sweetheart  the  son  of  the  blacksmith  here- 
abouts? Had  that  same  sweetheart  consoled  himself  by 
marrying  Annie's  sister  ?  The  stranger  dropped  his  cigarette 
in  the  dust  and  trod  upon  it.  Certain  it  was  that  he  did  not 
want  to  see  Jim  Drake  ! 

"  I  shall  not  be  here  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "  and  I  think  you 
might  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Why  your  sister  left  here  as  she  did.  I  promised  a  friend 
of  mine  to  make  inquiries  concerning  her,  and  I  must  keep  my 
promise." 

*'  Well,  then,  sir,  she  left  here  because  she  was  a  downright 
bad  girl,  and  was  more  trouble  to  her  poor  old  father  and 
mother  than  all  the  rest  of  us  put  together." 

*'  Where  did  she  go  from  here  ?" 

"  She  went  to  Readin'." 

•'  What  to  do  there  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  was  a  bit  of  a  child,  not  fifteen,  so  you 
ma.-  be  sure  as  mother  was  not  likely  to  say  more  to  me  about 
it  than  she  could  help." 

'*  Where  is  your  sister  now?" 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"  Is  it  possible?  "  he  asked  slowly. 

"Yes.  She's  never  been  back.  For  though  we  are  not 
very  high,  we're  respectable,  sir,  and  she's  the  only  one  of  my 
father's  name  or  mother's  either  that  ever  disgraced  it.  I,  for 
one,  don't  care  to  remember  that  she  belongs  to  us  at  all." 

"But  surely  you  know  what  she  did  when  she  left  home?" 


**15ott  ftave  an  Bl&er  Sister?"         iss 

••  She  went  into  service;  that  is,  I  believe  she  did.** 

"What,  straight  into  service  at  once?  Was  she  in  a 
condition  to  do  that  ?  " 

♦'  I  don't  know." 

He  went  closer,  and  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"  I  think  you  do,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Come  now,  you  are 
her  sister  after  all ;  happier  and  more  fortunate  than  she,  I  am 
sure,  but  that  need  not  make  you  hard  upon  her.  You  were 
children  together,  and  you  must  have  had  some  little  affection 
for  her  once.  Now,  if  I  tell  you  that  the  man  who  once  did 
her  a  grievous  wrong  would  like  to  make  her  some  amends, 
will  you  tell  me  where  to  find  her?  He  cannot  set  things 
right — that  is,  of  course,  impossible ;  but  he  might  atone  to  her 
somewhat.     Anyway,  he  would  like  to  try." 

Mrs.  Blake's  colour  died  out.  Her  eyes  sought  the  stranger's 
face,  and  dwelt  there.  It  was  a  fascinating  face,  with  strongly- 
cut  features  and  peculiar  eyes,  set  a  thought  unevenly  and 
near  the  nose.  A  pleasant  face,  a  lovable  face,  but  as  she 
looked  at  it  Mrs.  Alice  Drake  was  stirred  by  sudden  and 
unreasonable  dislike. 

She  had  always  disliked  the  sister  whose  abrupt  departure 
from  home  had  thrown  the  care  of  the  younger  children  upon 
her — a  care  to  which  she  had  never  taken  kindly,  thinking  it 
"  beneath  "  her.  Considering  herself  in  every  way  superior  to 
her  meeker  elder  sister,  she  had  never  forgiven  her  father  for 
once  having  surveyed  her  critically  when  she  had  presented 
herself  at  home  after  a  few  months'  absence. 

"Eh — h,  Alice,"  he  had  said  regretfully,  "ye  may  be  a  finer 
growed  gal,  but  ye'll  never  be  such  a  pretty  'un  as  your  sister 
Annie." 

That  miserably-petty  recollection  cropped  up  even  now.  In 
two  minutes  the  blacksmith's  young  wife  had  measured  her  new 
acquaintance  from  his  sunburnt  face  to  his  slender,  well-kept 
hands,  and  from  there  to  his  dusty  boots. 

"You're  a  swell,"  thought  Mrs.  Alice  Drake,  "and  you're 
the  man.  You  '  promised  a  friend '  indeed ! — your  conscience 
pricked  you,  more  likely !  Why  should  I  tell  you  where  she  is  ? 
Shall  I  ?  Now — s/ia/J  I  ?  No,  that  I  won't.  Let  her  work  as 
she  ought  to  work,  and  think  herself  lucky  that  people  can  be 
found  who  are  willing  to  give  her  the  chance.  You'd  go  and 
provide  for  her,  perhaps  take  the  child  away  and  bring  him  up 
as  a  gentleman.  No,  madame  Annie,  I'll  spoil  that  game,  if  1 
can.  Even  Jim  '11  never  forget  you.  He  only  married  me 
because  I  was  a  bit  like  you." 


156  Bimie  H)eanc 

These  reflections  took  up  little  time.  The  man  who  stood 
facing  Mrs.  Drake  was  unaware  of  any  awkward  pause  in  the 
conversation. 

"You  will  tell  me,"  he  said  again  persuasively,  "where  to 
find  her?" 

"  I  can't,  sir." 

"  You  mean  that  you  don't  know  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"But  your  people  know — your  mother  surely  knows?  " 

"Not  any  more  than  I  know.  I'll  tell  you  :  She  went  from 
Readin'  to  London,  and  it  was  a  long  time  bi^fore  motner  beard 
a  word  of  her.  Then  she  had  a  letter  from  some  Home  or 
other,  saying  that  Annie  was  all  rig  :t,  and  was  being  looked 
after  by  some  clergyman.  I  don't  remember  his  name. 
Mother  sent  an  answer,  but — but — let  me  see,  now.  Did  she 
ever  hear  from  her  since,  or  was  that  the  last  time  ?  I  really 
am  not  quite  sure." 

She  paused,  apparently  rummaging  about  in  the  recesses  of 
her  memory  for  something  half  forgotten.  The  sti  anger  waited, 
eyeing  her  attentively. 

"I  really  don't  think  she  did  write  again,"  she  resumed 
thoughtfully,  "only  once  just  to  say  good-bye,  and  that  was 
some  time  after." 

"To  say  'good-bye'?" 

"Yes;  she — what  is  it  you  call  it? — emigrated.  Well!  that's 
the  last  we  know  of  her." 

Having  jerked  out  which  statement,  she  darted  a  shifty  look 
at  the  stranger's  face,  and  saw  there  incredulity  "  writ  large." 

" Surely  you  know  where  she  went?  " 

"  To  where  they  mostly  do  go — America,  Canada,  somewhere 
there.  I  don't  know  nothing  more  than  that.  I  daresay,"  she 
went  on  a  trifle  eagerly,  "  that  it  seems  unlikely  to  you." 

"  It  does  seem  unlikely,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Because  you  can't  enter  into  our  father  and  mother's  feel- 
ings. You've  no  idea  what  letter-writin'  means  to  poor  folks 
who've  not  had  much  schoolin'.  I'm  sure  I'm  pretty  right  in 
sayin'  that  them  one  or  two  letters  mother  wrote  our  Annie 
was  the  only  letters  she  ever  wrote  in  her  life.  And  Annie 
was  never  much  good  at  learnin'.  Mother  used  to  say  that 
there  was  some  good  in  sendin'  me  to  school,  but  it  was  jest 
wastin'  money  on  Annie.  She  was  always  sort  of  stupid,  I 
used  to  say,  and  sure  enough  she  showed  1  was  right." 

"But  even  stupidity  would  not  account  for  her  going  to 
Canada  without  reference  to  her  parents." 


'♦J^ou  Ibave  an  El&er  Sister?"         157 

"Where  there's  no  sense  there's  no  feelin',  they  say,  and  there 
was  precious  little  in  her.  You  see,  sir,  I  can't  go  through  it 
all  to  show  you  how  that  disgrace  parted  Annie  from  our  folks. 
Talk  of  feelin' !  Why,  she  let  father  and  mother  take  us 
children's  very  food  money  to  get  her  into  Readin' !  She  let 
mother  break  open  our  little  money-boxes  a'  purpose  to  go  and 
see  her,  when  all  the  while  she'd  got  plenty  of  money  in  her 
pocket,  give  her  by  them  as  bad  as  herself ! " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  she  run  away  that  same  night  as  our  mother  come 
home  with  the  baby,  and  before  she  went  she  changed  a  five- 
pound  note.  It  was  as  much  the  thought  o'  that  as  anything 
which  set  our  folks  against  her,  for  they  could  see  what  a  bad, 
hard-hearted  thing  she  was.  So  when  they  once  found  that 
she  was  all  right,  they  jest  washed  their  hands  of  her,  and  said 
that  she'd  made  her  own  bed,  and  must  lay  on  it.  They'd  got 
us  others  to  think  about,  and  so  they  let  her  go." 

"She  appears  to  have  been  willing." 

"  More  likely  sulky,  I  expect.  When  she  found  she  was  not 
to  come  back  here  just  as  she  liked,  she  went  off  in  a  pet 
without  sayin'  where." 

It  seemed  very  uncharitable  and  wretched,  but  it  was 
certainly  very  likely.  The  stranger  gave  a  dreary  shrug  and 
half-turned  on  his  heel. 

"  Well,  there  is  still  one  point  to  be  cleaned  up,  and  that  the 
main  one.     Did  your  sister  tm'grate  alone?" 

"Don't  a  lot  usually  go  together ?" 

"That  is  not  what  1  mean.  Has  she  anyone  to  keep  besides 
herself?     As  a  matter  of  fact,  was  there  not — a — a — child?" 

Mrs.  Alice  Drake  went  a  little  faint,  and  swallowed  a  lump 
in  her  throat. 

"  If  there  was,"  she  said,  leaning  hard  against  the  door-franne, 
*•  there  isn't  now.  It  was  that  part  of  it  what  mother  kept  to 
herself,  but  children's  ears  are  mostly  open  to  what's  no  good 
to  them,  and  after  that  first  letter  from  Annie  I  heard  mother 
say  something  to  father  about  it's  bein'  a  mercy  that  the  child 
was  took,  because  it'd  give  Annie  a  better  chance  o*  gettin'  on." 

Her  listener's  intent  brows  relaxed. 

"  They  meant  that  the  child  was  dead  ?  " 

Mrs.  Drake's  lips  were  pale,  and  she  answered  with  difficulty. 

"Of  course,  that  must  have  been  what  thty  meant." 

"Ah!" 

He  gave  a  long  sigh,  whether  of  relef  or  regret  it  was 
impossible  to  say.     After  a  pause  he  said : 


is8  Hnnfc  Deanc 

"  I  might  as  well  take  the  name  of  that  Home  you  mentioned. 
Your  sister,  of  course,  emigrated  from  there." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Mother  wanted  to  write  there,  to  be  sure, 
about  it,  but  she'd  burnt  the  bit  of  paper  that  had  the  address 
on,  and  she's  a  poor  memory  for  anything  like  that.  Of  course, 
if  you'd  like  to  see  mother,  I've  told  you  where  they  live ;  but  I 
don't  suppose  she'd  go  into  it  with  you  like  I've  done,  and  it'd 
upset  her  dreadful,  I  know." 

"No  doubt.  I  don't  think  I  will  trouble  her.  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  I  am  much  indebted  to  you  for  your 
patience.     I  thank  you  very  sincerely.     Good-night  1 " 

He  lifted  his  hat,  walked  sharply  across  the  green  on  to  the 
road,  and  Mrs.  Drake  saw  him  no  more. 

But  when  he  had  passed  the  last  house,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  front  of  him  but  the  dim  and  lonely  road,  he 
slackened  his  pace,  muttering  the  while  to  himself  in  an  oddly 
weary,  hopeless  kind  of  way  : 

"  I  am  glad  she  did  not  drift  to  anything  worse.  I  am  glad 
that  the  child — died.  That  is,  I  think  I  am.  Oh,  how  the 
devil  do  I  know  what  I  am,  except  that  it  isn't  *  glad '  of  any- 
thing ?  Where's  the  use  of  finding  the  girl  ?  If  there  had  been 
a  child  I  would  have  taken  it — would  have  let  the  whole  world 
know  it  was  mine ;  but  the  child  is  provided  for,  and  for  the 
girl  herself — she  will  be  far,  far  better  without  further  attention 
from  me.  Well,  I  have  done  what  I  could,  which  turns  out  to 
be — nothing." 

He  stood  still  in  the  darkening  road,  while  a  circling  bat 
flew  past  and  past  him. 

"  Shall  I  go  back  and  tell  her  what  I've  done  ? "  he  burst 
out  excitedly,  "  right  back  to  her  now  f  Surely  she  knows  I 
cannot  keep  away  for  ever.  If  only  I  could  make  her  see ! 
How  did  I  know  what  womanhood  meant  until  she  taught  me  ? 
I  was  a  fool,  groping  in  the  dark.  I  did  not  know ;  before 
God  and  my  own  conscience,  I  say,  I  did  not  see  the  horror  of 
the  thing  I  did.     And  now  that  I  do  see — " 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  but  the  laugh  had  a 
ring  in  it  like  the  cry  of  a  broken  heart.  It  startled  even  him. 
He  walked  on,  still  muttering  to  himself,  for  he  was  in  bitter 
trouble,  and  trouble  until  now  had  so  comfortably  passed  him  by. 

"  Now  that  I  do  see,  what  is  there  left  for  me  but  to  wish 
myself  blind  again,  that  I  might  do  as  other  men  do,  and  be 
content.  If  only  I  hadn't  loved  her  quite  so  well !  And  if 
only  she  were  not  so  very  well  worth  loving  !  And  if  only  she 
had  not  thought  I  was  worth  it  too !    Oh !  after  all,  what  is  it  ? 


"l^ott  ibave  an  Bl^er  Sister?"         159 

Nothing  but  what  every  fool   feels  once  in  his  pitiful  life 
time — 

"  ♦  Of  love 
That  never  found  its  earthly  close,  what  sequel  ? 
Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  ?  or  else  the 
Same  as  if  it  had  not  been  ? ' 

"Why  *  the  same  as  if  it  had  not  been,'  after  a  few  months. 
What  is  It  but  a  disease — a  touch  of  raging  fever,  bad  to  bear 
but  never  fatal,  and  in  a  short  time — over  !  What  is  it  ?  "  He 
stopped  and  ground  his  heel  deep  into  the  yielding  road. 
**  What  is  it  ?  Oh  !  where's  the  use  of  denying  it  ?  My  God ! 
my  God  !     It's  just  too  hard  to  bear ! " 

A  day  or  two  after  that  the  old  station-master  met  Dan! 
Deane,  and  stopped  him. 

"  Well,  Dan'l,"  he  said,  "  and  how  is  the  world  using  you  ?  " 

"  Fairish,  thankee,"  responded  Dan'l  mildly,  "  fairish." 

'*  Did  I  dream  that  I  saw  somebody  belongin'  to  you  a  day 
or  two  ago?  Somebody  that  went  away  some  five  years 
back  ?  " 

"  You  must  ha'  bin  dreamin',  Master  Robins." 

"  I  certainly  did  see  her," 

"What,  my  gal  Annie?  No.  She've  never  bin  home. 
She's  all  right  and  well,  thank  God,  but  it's  a  long  way  off  is 
London,  an'  travellin'  means  money.  Besides,  there's  the 
women-folks,  and  they  don't  forgive  one  another  much,  Master 
Robins." 

**  That's  true,  Dan'l.  I  must  have  been  mistaken.  But  a 
young  woman  of  just  the  same  stamp  as  her  got  out  of  the 
excursion  train  that  run  through  here  from  Waterloo  to  Reading 
last  Tuesday,  She  fought  very  shy  of  lookin'  me  in  the  fa<:e, 
and  she  had  a  little  boy  with  her  about  five  or  six  years  old. 
They  stayed  somewhere  here  for  the  day,  and  caught  the  train 
again  at  night.  I  can't  say  that  I  got  a  real  good  look  at  her, 
but  I  cert'n'y  thought  it  was  your  gal." 

Unsuspicious  Dan'l  only  shook  his  head. 

"  It  warn't  her,"  he  said,  "  Lor'  bless  ye,  no." 

But  when  he  went  indoors  he  told  his  wife  of  Master 
Robins'  fancy.  She  dropped  on  a  chair  and  threw  up  her 
hands. 

"An',  depend  on  it,  it  wus  our  Annie,"  she  cried ;  "ay,  that 
it  wus  !  An'  that  little  feller  what  come  in  here  asting  for  a 
drink  wus  her  boy." 


i6o  Bnnfe  2)eane 

"  Why,  that's  nonsense,  missus — where  was  she  ?  " 

"  I  see  her — I  see  her  myself.  She  stood  up  the  road  against 
Hobbs's  pasture  gate,  sort  o'  back  behind  the  gate-post,  an' 
when  the  child  run  back  to  her,  though  I  warn't  close  enough 
to  see  her  face,  I  noticed  the  lot  o'  hair — light  hair,  ye  know, 
Dan'l — out  at  the  back  of  her  bonnet,  an'  thinks  I  to  myself, 
*  Lor',  that  young  person's  got  a  head  like  our  gals',  like  our 
Annie's  an'  our  Alice's.'  But  little  did  I  think  she'd  bin 
wand'rin'  around  here  all  day  not  likin'  to  come  into  her  own 
home !  An'  to  think  that  wus  her  little  lad  !  My  poor  gal ! 
I'd  ha'  bin  that  pleased  to  see  her ;  an'  for  her  to  go  away 
without  as  much  as  a  cup  o'  tea." 

Mrs.  Deane  picked  up  the  corners  of  her  apron  and  burst 
out  crying.  She  was  still  crying  when  a  hand  tapped  at  the 
window,  and  then  pushed  open  the  door. 

"  Anyone  home  ?  "  cried  Alice  gaily.  "  Why,  mother,  what 
are  you  cryin'  about  ?  " 

Father  and  mother  together  told  "  why." 

At  the  end  of  the  story  Alice  turned  on  her  heel  with  an 
impatient  sneer. 

*'  So  here  you  two  old  sillies  sit  and  cry.  Well,  now,  let  me 
tell  you  there's  nothing  to  cry  about.  Annie  didn't  wander 
about  here  without  company,  any  more  than  she  did  six  years 
ago ;  and  what's  more,  she  sticks  to  the  same.  So  you  needn't 
fret  about  her  going  away  in  want  of  a  cup  o'  tea,  mother.  Did 
the  child  look  like  want  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  mother  volubly,  "  he  looked  like  any 
lady's  child,  didn't  he,  father  ?  " 

"  That  he  did,"  said  Dan'l,  with  a  touch  of  pride  ;  "  that  he 
did,  an'  no  mistake  !  " 

"  Well,  he's  a  gentleman's  child,  anyway,"  said  Alice  drily, 
"  that  I  do  know,  and  p'r'aps  I  could  tell  you  whose." 

The  mother  dried  her  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Alice  ?  How  long  ha'  you  knowed 
what  nobody  else  ever  did  find  out  ?  " 

"  Why,  since  Tuesday,  when  she  was  here,  and  he  was  here 
too." 

"  Don't  be  over-sharp  wi'  your  knowin's,  Alice,"  the  father 
said,  giving  her  a  steady  look,  which  she  did  not  meet.  "  I'll 
say  for  you  as  you've  got  a  good  head  for  makin'  up  where 
there's  anything  missin',  an'  you  ain't  none  too  careful  o'  the 
truth  o'  what  you  sez." 

"  Thank  you,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Alice,  turning  red.  "  We 
all  know  who  you  thought  the  most  of  when  we  girls  was  in 


**  ^o\x  Ibave  an  BlDer  Sister  ? "         i6i 

question.  There's  precious  little  thanks  in  this  world  for  a 
girl  who  knows  how  to  behave  herself.  But,  thank  goodness, 
I've  got  a  home  of  my  own  and  Sv^mebody  who  appreciates  me, 
though  my  Jim  isn't  a  'swell,'  who  wears  dandy  boots  and 
turns  up  his  trousers  to  show  them  ;  and  though  he  haven't  got 
dainty  hands,  with  a  weddin'  ring  on  that  it  would  have  been 
more  to  his  credit  if  he'd  given  away." 

Alice  had  lost  her  temper,  and  was  vixenish.  Dan'l  and  his 
wife  sat  open-mouthed  and  dumb. 

"  I  see  him,  and  spoke  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Alice,  with  great 
nonchalance ;  "  but  don't  believe  me  if  I'm  not  worth  believin'. 
Ask  Robins.  You  say  he  saw  her.  Now,  just  for  satisfaction 
sake,  and  to  clear  me,  ask  him  if  he  didn't  see  a  man  in  a 
grey  suit  of  clothes,  with  a  straw  hat  and  brown  boots." 

"  Robins  told  me  she  got  in  an'  got  out  by  'erself." 

"  Wel^  now,  Robins  is  home  to  his  tea.  Come  on,  mother, 
don't  sit  frettin'  there.  I'll  go  up  to  his  house  with  you,  and 
we'll  ask  him." 

The  two  women  went,  and  surely  enough,  Robins  did 
remember  a  gentleman  corresponding  with  Mrs.  Drake's  de- 
scription, who  had  reached  the  village  by  an  evening  train, 
and  had  joined  the  mail  for  London  three  or  four  hours  later. 

"  So  ye  see,  Alice,  he  warn't  with  her,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  in 
a  stage  whisper. 

"  Warn't  he ! "  said  Alice,  growing  coarse  as  she  grew 
spiteful.  "  She  couldn't  wait  anywhere  up  the  line  for  his 
train,  could  she?  It  was  very  likely  that  them  two'd  come 
into  this  place  arm-in-arm,  wasn't  it?  or  go  out  of  it 
either ! " 

Robins  suddenly  let  his  tilted  chair  forward  and  slapped  his 
knee. 

"  Now  I  know  where  I've  seen  him  before ! "  he  cried. 
"  Only  that  summer  before  your  gal  left  here  did  that  same 
gent — lookin'  a  good  bit  younger  then — come  up  and  down 
this  'ere  line  for  weeks  most  ev'ry  day.  An'  it  did  fairly  puzzle 
me  to  think  what  he  was  doin'  here." 

"  You're  sure  it  was  the  same  man,  Mr.  Robins  ?  " 

"  Certain  sure,"  said  Robins ;  as,  indeed,  he  was. 

"  Well,  mother,  now  p'r'aps  you'll  believe  me.  Annie  went 
starvin'  for  a  cup  o'  tea,  didn't  she  ?  And  you  ought  to  fret 
your  poor  old  heart  about  a  deservin'  girl  like  her,  didn't  you  ? 
She  hankers  after  home  as  much  as  I  do  after  Queen  Victoria. 
Service,  indeed !  So  am  I  in  service,  as  much  as  she  is,  and 
more  I " 

L 


1 63  annie  S)canc 

Mrs.  Deane  saw  the  matter  through  her  daughter's 
spectacles,  and  presently  Dan'l  saw  it  through  his  wife's. 

"  I  think  I  settled  that,"  said  Mrs.  Alice  Drake.  "  But  he 
must  almost  have  passed  her  on  the  road.  Now,  that  part  of 
it  I  can't  make  out." 


CHAPTER  XX 

"LINDSAY  LK   QUESNE,   THE   FAMOUS  TENOR " 

"  I  HAD  a  great  surprise  yesterday,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  when  she 
entered  the  kitchen  the  morning  after  Annie's  holiday.  "  Mr. 
Holt  and  I  had  made  up  our  minds  to  rough  it  yesterday. 
We  were  going  to  dine  down  here  just  as  we  could,  and  then 
about  twelve  up  drove  a  cab.  *  Dear  heart  alive,'  I  said, 
'  who's  that  ?  I  knew  somebody  would  call  to-day.  Some- 
body always  does  when  one  is  in  a  muddle.'  You  have  heard 
me  speak  of  my  niece,  Mrs.  Kemble,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

*'  We  brought  her  up,  you  know.  I  may  be  a  little  partial,  but 
I  have  always  said  that  I  never,  never  saw  such  a  pretty  girl  as 
Georgie  was.  Her  present  husband  followed  her  about  for 
weeks  until  he  found  out  where  she  lived.  Then  he  called 
upon  us  and  told  us  how  much  he  admired  her.  Well,  you 
see,  she  had  nothing,  dear  child,  and  he  came  of  such  a  high 
family.  We  thought  it  a  wonderful  marriage  for  her ;  but  I 
don't  quite  know  whether  we  were  right.  Do  you  remember 
me  going  to  Southampton  to  see  her  when  they  were 
going  abroad?  That  is  three  years  ago,  and  now  they 
are  in  London,  so  she  embraced  the  first  opportunity  of 
coming  to  see  us.  So  thoughtlul  of  her !  She  brought  her 
children — two  such  lovely  creatures  !  You  can  guess  how 
vexed  I  was  that  I  could  not  receive  them  properly. 
Of  course,  you  could  not  help  it,  but  it  did  seem  all  for  the 
purpose.  She  is  used  to  such  style,  you  know — five  or  six 
servants,  and  Mr.  Kemble  so  particular.  I  wanted  to  say  that 
Mr.  Holt  has  been  kind  enough  to  ofier  to  take  your  boy  back 
to  school  this  morning,  because  Mrs.  Kemble  and  the  children 
are  coming,  and  we  must  have  a  nice  dinner  about  three 
o'clock." 

'•  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Annie. 

So  it  happened  that  Lin  trotted  off  with  the  little  old  gentle- 
man, and  was  quite  surprised  to  find  what  a  jolly  little  old 
gentleman  he  was  when  he  was  safely  out  of  reach  of  his  little 

163 


1 64  anntc  Deanc 

old  lady.  They  had  not  gone  far  when  he  turned  into  a  quiet 
hotel,  where  he  had  a  disgustingly  dirty  little  bottle  of  wine, 
which  set  Lin  wondering  what  they  would  say  if  mother  took 
such  a  thing  upstairs  at  No,  19,  where  everything  was  so  clean 
and  shining.  Then  Mr.  Holt  had  two  cigars  of  a  very  special 
kind,  one  of  which  he  lit,  and  the  other  did  put  most  carefully 
into  his  breast  pocket.  He  paid  for  his  wine  and  cigars  with 
what  looked  to  Lin  like  a  nice  new  farthing,  but  it  could  not 
have  been  that,  because  the  waiter  brought  some  change  back, 
out  of  which  he  was  permitted  to  keep  sixpence.  Lin  could  not 
quite  see  why  he  was  so  permitted,  and  gave  it  up  as  something 
beyond  him.  The  boy  sat  on  a  leather-covered  lounge 
watching  the  old  man  hold  the  violet  wine  up  to  the  light,  sniff 
it,  taste  It,  nod  at  it  in  high  approval,  and  empty  one  glass  after 
another  until  he  had  emptied  the  bottle  too,  when  he 
suddenly  remembered  his  little  charge. 

"  I  wonder,  now,  if  they  keep  cakes  here,"  said  he,  with  his 
head  on  one  side  and  his  fat  chin  between  his  finger  and 
thumb.  "  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  to  find  that 
somewhere  in  this  house  there  are  three-cornered  cakes  with 
currants  on  the  top  ;  and  depend  upon  it,  we  shall  find  them  in 
a  big  ylass  jar." 

Lin's  eyes  were  very  wide  and  bright  as  they  watched  the 
little  man  ring  the  bell,  and  his  ears  were  very  sharp  to  catch 
some  myterious  question  asked  of  the  waiter,  who  at  once 
suggested  "lemonade,"  and  departing,  returned  with  a  tray 
bearing  a  long  glass  and  a  round  bottle  that  rolled  about  in  a 
foolish,  helpless  sort  of  way,  and  was  evidently  never  meant  to 
stand  on  its  own  bottom,  or  to  take  upon  itself  any  sort  of 
responsibility. 

♦'  Do  you  think  he  will  drink  all  that  ?  "  Mr.  Holt  asked  the 
waiter  in  an  undertone. 

"  Well,  sir,  it's  hard  to  say,"  responded  that  person  blandly; 
"  but  if  you're  not  used  to  children,  sir,  I'd  advise  you  to  keep 
an  eye  on  him,  merely  for  the  sake  of  his  own  comfort,  sir, 
afterwards.  I  don't  see  that  it  could  do  him  any  worse  harm, 
sir,  but  it  might  make  him  uneasy." 

"  Ah,  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Holt  solemnly,  "  I — I  see." 

So  Lin,  having  eaten  a  cake,  did  his  best  to  reduce  the 
lemonade,  ate  another  cake,  returned  to  his  "  absorbing  "  task 
with  deliberation,  paused  to  take  breath,  had  another  drink, 
and  yet  one  more,  began  to  feel  as  if  he  had  swallowed  the 
bottle,  and  desisted. 


**Xtn&sas  Xe  (Siucsnc,  tbe  famous  Uenor"   165 

"  Perhaps  you've  had  enough  ? "  suggested  Mr.  Holt 
mildly. 

*•  I  haven't  had  enough,"  responded  Lin,  with  water  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  great  tingling  in  his  nose,  '*  but  I  can't  drink  any 
more." 

He  slid  down  from  the  lounge  and  held  himself  up  very 
stiffly. 

"  All  right? "  said  the  little  old  gentleman. 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  responded  Lin  bravely,  feeling  like  a  balloon 
somewhat  over-inflated,  and  in  imminent  danger  of  collapse. 

When  they  were  in  the  street  again  he  was  thoughtful,  but  at 
last  found  courage  to  air  his  thoughts. 

"  AxQyou  all  right,  sir  ?  "  said  he  innocently. 

"  All  right,  my  little  man  ?     Certainly.     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  you  drinked  all  your  bottleful,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"Ah!  but  I'm  bigger  than  you,  and  can  stand  more,  you 
see." 

The  child  nodded. 

"  I  suppose  that  man  was  glad  I  couldn't  finish  mine.  Will 
he  go  and  drink  it,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  he  will.  Here's  our  'bus.  Now,  before  we 
get  in,  listen  to  me.  You  are  not  to  tell  anybody  that  I  took 
you  anywhere  or  gave  you  anything.  You  will  remember  that, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     Mustn't  I  tell  mother  ?  " 

"  Well,  no.  You  see,  when  we're  out  we  don't  tell  everyone 
where  we  go.  Not  that  there's  any  harm,  my  little  man ;  oh, 
no,  but  we  don't  think  proper  to  say  anything  about  it,  that's 
all.  So  you  must  remember  to  keep  quiet,  and  then — some 
day— you  may  get  more  cakes  and  lemonade." 

Lin  was  silent  for  some  few  seconds,  then  spoke  with  great 
earnestness. 

"If  I  do,"  said  he,  "will  you  tell  the  man  to  bring  mine 
when  he  brings  yours  ?  I'm  sure  I  could  have  finished  it  if  I'd 
begun  when  you  did." 

When  Annie  went  into  the  dining-room  that  afternoon  to  lay 
her  table,  she  thought  the  lady  who  stood  half  in  the  room  and 
half  on  the  balcony  outside  was  the  prettiest  lady  she  had  ever 
seen  in  her  life.  And  Mrs.  Kemble  was  very  pretty,  with  a 
gipsy-like  small  face,  from  the  forehead  of  which  the  silky  uncut 
hair  sprang  in  a  low  perfect  arch  :  with  a  faultlessly-curved, 
vividly-coloured  mouth,  and  a  pair  of  long-lashed  eyes,  so  dark 
that  the  pupils  were  only  visible  in  a  strong  light 


i66  Hnnte  Dcanc 

Two  lovely  children  were  clinging  about  her  as  Annie 
entered,  and  she  was  pettishly  trying  to  free  herself,  talking  the 
while  excitedly  to  her  aunt. 

"  Who  was  to  dream  of  there  being  any  scarcity  of  money  ? 
Be  quiet,  Vy,  what  a  tomboy  you  are  !  I  think  it  is  despicable 
in  a  man  to  lure  a  girl  into  marriage  by  deliberate  misrepre- 
sentation of  his  circumstances.  I  say  it  is  vile.  It  ought  to 
be  punishable." 

"  But,  my  love,  perhaps  he  did  not  mean  to  deceive  you." 

"  But  he  did — he  did  I  or  why  should  he  not  have  spoken 
the  truth  ?  Why,  when  it  was  suggested  that  he  should  make 
some  settlement  upon  me,  did  he  get  out  of  it  by  airing  his 
ridiculous  notion  about  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  entire 
dependence  upon  her  husband?  I  saw  it  all  soon  after  we 
were  married,  when  he  refused  me  such  a  paltry  necessary  as  a 
sealskin  coat,  and  glazed  the  refusal  over  by  saying  that  he 
believed  fur  to  be  unhealthy  wear." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  really  believe  that  myself." 

•*  Fiddlesticks !  If  it  is,  why  don't  three  out  of  four  rich 
women  die  ?  They  all  wear  it !  No,  he  simply  could  not, 
or  would  not,  afford  it.  I  am  never  allowed  to  go  shopping 
alone  since  I  once  went  into  Morris's,  ordered  a  few  little 
things  I  actually  needed,  and  told  them  to  render  him  the 
account.  Of  course,  I  thought  it  only  the  right  thing  to  do. 
Oh,  auntie,  there  was  such  a  row  !  He  got  out  a  horrid  book 
and  showed,  or  pretended  to  show,  me  what  his  income  really 
was.  I  burst  out  at  him  for  not  telling  me  before.  He  smiled 
in  that  cruel  way  of  his,  and  reminded  me  of  a  stupid  thing  I 
had  once  said  about  not  wanting  to  know.  Suppose  I  had 
said  it !  Of  course,  I  thought  he  had  the  income  of  a 
gentleman,  and  he  knew  I  thought  so." 

Mrs.  Holt  looked  distressed. 

"It  is  terribly  disappointing  for  you,  love,"  she  said. 

"  Disappointing  I  I  think  it  is  worse  than  disappointing.  I 
say  the  whole  thing  was  dishonest.  He  married  me  under 
false  pretences,  and,  if  I  could,  I  would  have  him  punished 
for  it." 

"  But  is  this  true  about  his — comparative  poverty  ? '' 

"  Say  comparative  beggary,  aunt.  That  is  much  nearer  the 
mark." 

"Then  why  not  let  the  big  place  in  the  country,  my  dear, 
and  live  quietly  somewhere  else  ?  Surely  that  would  be 
cheaper  H' 

"  Of  course  it  would,  but  he  says  his  people  have  always 


**Xin&sas  %c  (Sluesne,  tbc  famous  Uenor"   167 

lived  there,  and  have  managed  to  keep  up  appearances  !  If  we 
starved  indoors,  he  would  not  care  so  long  as  he  saw  himself 
described  as  '  W.  S.  Kemble,  of  the  Warren,  Galloway,  near 
Chelmsford — J.P.,  Esquire.'  Not  many  months  since  I  had 
notice  from  the  only  decent  cook  I  have  ever  managed  to 
find.     What  do  you  think  she  said  to  me  ?  " 

*•  My  poor  dear  child,  I  don't  know.'' 

*'  Why,  she  gave  me  notice,  because  she  thought  our  table 
really  did  not  need  anything  but  a  good  '  general.'  '  In  fact, 
ma'am,'  she  said  to  me  in  that  atrociously  patronising  way  they 
assume  when  they  know  they  have  the  upper  hand,  '  if  I  was 
you,  I'd  certainly  have  my  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 
One  good  meal's  worth  two  messin'  ones,  and  I'm  sure  you  and 
the  children  'd  have  the  benefit'  What  could  I  say?  The 
woman  was  right." 

Here  Annie  announced  that  dinner  was  ready,  and  Mrs. 
Kemble's  domestic  woes  were  temporarily  shelved. 

She  came  often  after  that ;  in  fact,  she  was  in  Merryon  Square 
nearly  every  day,  and  she  watched  Annie  with  her  long, 
brilliant  eyes  until  the  girl  was  uncomfortable. 

"Do  you  know,  auntie,"  said  she  one  day,  "that  I  have 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  your  maid  ?    She  is  remarkably  pretty ! " 

"/  have  thought  so!"  exclaimed  the  little  old  gentleman 
unguardedly.     "Now,  really,  I  have  thought  that  myself." 

"  Mr.  Holt,"  said  his  little  old  lady,  turning  very  pink, 
"when  she  first  came  here  you  may  remember  that  I  asked 
you  if  you  thought  her  pretty,  and  you  said  that  your  sight  was 
getting  so  unreliable  you  could  not  tell  a  pretty  face  from  a 
plain  one ! " 

"  Ah,  yes,  my  dear,  but  when  a  face  is  familiar  it  makes  a 
difference.     It — it — grows  upon  one,  as  you  may  say — " 

"  I  can't  see  that  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  with  a  fussy  dignity 
exactly  like  that  of  a  bantam  hen  ;  "  and  to  talk  of  a  servant's 
face  growing  upon  one  is — to  say  the  least  of  it — very  bad 
taste,  Mr.  Holt — very  bad  taste  indeed." 

Mr.  Holt  did  not  attempt  to  defend  it,  only  sat  rubbing  his 
chin  and  looking  severely  snubbed. 

"  She  is  quakerish,  servan^is/i"  Mrs.  Kemble  went  on,  "  but 
I  often  look  at  her,  and  think  how  I  should  like  to  undo  those 
prim  plaits  and  see  what  her  hair  is  like.  It  is  a  lovely  colour, 
and  she  has  such  a  mass  of  it !  Don't  think  me  idiotic,  auntie. 
You  surely  have  not  forgotten  my  love  for  all  things  beautiful  ? 
She  has  been  with  you  some  time,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Five  years,  dear." 


i68  Hnnle  Deane 

"  She  cooks  splendidly  !  " 

"  Y-e-s.  Of  course,  I  have  had  to  drill  it  into  her,  and  even 
now  I  superintend  every  little  thing." 

Mrs.  Kemble  nodded. 

"  I  wish  I  could  find  just  such  a  girl.  It  is  astonishing  how 
much  you  can  get  out  of  one  left  to  herself,  and  how  little  out 
of  three  or  four.  /  say  that  you  people  who  can  manage  with 
one  servant  are  immensely  fortunate." 

Mr.  Holt  began  to  look  apprehensive.  Mrs.  Holt  saw  it, 
and  proceeded  to  carry  into  execution  the  exclusively  feminine 
practice  of  "  cutting  off  one's  nose  to  spite  one's  face." 

"  Of  course,  we  should  not  be  justified  in  standing  in  the 
girl's  light,"  she  said  demurely,  "  and  if  you  would  like  to  take 
Emma  into  Essex,  my  love,  I  daresay  she  would  go  with  you." 

The  old  gentleman  rose  from  his  chair  to  avert  the 
impending  disaster. 

'*  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  forget.  Georgie  knows  nothing  of 
the  circumstances  which  led  to  Emma's  coming  here." 

Mrs.  Holt  did  not  rise,  but  she  placed  her  fat  hands  firmly 
on  the  arms  of  her  chair,  and  looked  at  her  husband  with  the 
serenity  of  conscious  power. 

"  Mr.  Holt,"  she  said,  "  I  know  my  duty  as  a  Christian.  Will 
you  be  good  enough  to  attend  to  your  own  affairs  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  my  love,  of  course.     I  only  thought — " 

And  then  the  little  man  sat  down,  quite  snuffed  out  and 
despondent. 

Mrs.  Kemble  looked  startled. 

•'Surely  this  girl  is  not  one  of  your  experiments,  auntie?" 
she  said.     "  I  thought  you  had  done  with  all  that." 

"  My  dear,  your  uncle  was  wrong  to  mention  Emma's  private 
affairs — very  wrong.  You  know  I  would  not  let  you  have  a 
girl  about  whom  there  was  any  doubt.  If  I  can  give  her  five 
years'  exemplary  character,  surely  you  need  not  want  to  go  back 
further  than  that?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  will  trust  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble 
hurriedly.  "  I  am  sure  you  would  not  let  me  have  the  girl  if  she 
were  not  well  worth  having." 

Mr.  Holt  suppressed  a  sigh.  Five  years'  peace  in  the 
kitchen  at  an  end  !  Now  war  would  be  declared  again,  just 
because  Georgie  wanted  everything  she  saw,  as  usual ! 

It  happened  that  day  that  Georgie  wanted  something  else. 
She  suddenly  remembered  a  certain  kind  of  tea-cake,  only 
obtainable  at  one  shop  in  the  Euston  Road. 

"  Oh,  auntie,"  she  said,  "  if  Emma  has  done,  can  she  go  and 


**  Xin&sag  Xe  (Sluesne,  tbe  ^Famous  Xlenot  **   169 

get  some?  I  would  go  myself,  but  they  would  not  send  them 
in  time,  and  /  couldn't  carry  a  big  paper  bag,  now,  could 
I?" 

"  Certainly  not,  love,"  said  auntie,  horrified  at  the  suggestion. 
•'  Of  course,  Emma  shall  go." 

"  The  children  might  go  with  her,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  but  they 
puckered  their  brows  and  wrung  their  shoulders,  and  flatly 
refused,  like  the  spoiled  young  savages  they  were.  They  were 
having  a  game  at  "  tents  " — that  is  to  say,  that  they  were  up  in 
Annie's  bedroom,  had  pulled  her  bed  to  pieces,  had  tied  the 
corners  of  the  sheets  to  the  brass  knobs  of  the  bedstead,  and 
were  thus  laboriously  "camping  out."  They  did  not  want  to 
go  out  with  "  auntie's  nice  Emma,"  and  what  was  more  they 
wouldn't  go  out,  so  "  auntie's  nice  Emma "  left  them  in 
possession  of  her  private  apartment  and  went  for  the  tea-cakes 
alone. 

Mrs.  Kemble,  reading  luxuriously  in  her  aunt's  own 
particular  chair,  heard  the  racket  above  stairs. 

"  What  damage  can  they  do  up  there  ?  "  she  asked  after 
a  while. 

"  Not  much,  my  love,"  said  auntie  cheerfully,  "  if  any.  You 
sit  still  and  have  a  nice  rest." 

But  presently  Mrs.  Kemble  reluctantly  drew  herself  upright 
and  listened,  then  threw  down  her  book  and  went  upstairs. 
She  crept  up  the  top  flight  and  peeped  round  Annie's  bedroom 
door.  Tired  of  camping  out,  the  children  had  found  a  new 
amusement.  They  had  turned  the  contents  of  Annie's  box  on 
to  the  floor  and  were  arrayed  in  her  clothes. 

"  Oh,  you  wretches  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Kemble  angrily.  "  Why 
couldn't  you  leave  that  box  alone?  What  will  the  girl  say? 
Well,  I  am  sure  /can't  help  it.  She  really  should  have  locked 
her  box.  Out  of  the  way  !  I  will  put  some  of  the  things  back, 
but  I  can't  trouble  to  replace  them  all." 

She  collected  a  little  heap  of  linen,  and  hastily  put  it  at  the 
bottom  of  the  box. 

"  Oh,  look,  muvva  ! "  cried  four-year-old  Vy.  "  Here's 
somefin'  dropped  out." 

Saying  which,  the  child  picked  up  a  worn  envelope,  and 
pulled  therefrom  two  or  three  cheap  Christmas  cards  and  a 
cabinet  photograph.  Mrs.  Kemble  made  a  dart  for  these 
articles. 

"  You  little  monkey  i  You  mustn't  touch  those  things,  nor 
open  people's —     Oh  !  how  very  extraordinary  !  " 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  ran  downstairs. 


I70  Snntc  Deane 

"  Auntie,"  she  cried  breathlessly,  "  look  here !  Did  you 
ever  know  anything  so  funny  ?" 

"What  is  it,  love?" 

"  Why,  look." 

Mrs.  Holt  adjusted  her  spectacles,  and  held  the  portrait  up 
to  the  light. 

"  Well,  dear,  who  is  it  ?  "  she  said  serenely,  then. 

**  Don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  don't." 

"  Not  when  you  have  heard  me  rave  about  him  many  and 
many  a  time,  until  you  used  to  say  you  were  sick  of  the  man's 
name?  The  children  found  this  in  your  quakerish  Emma's 
box." 

*'  And  still,  my  love,  I  haven't  a  notion  whose  portrait  it  is." 

"  Not  when  I  once  dragged  you  out  on  a  fearful  night  on 
purpose  to  hear  him  ?  It  is  Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  the  tenor 
singer." 

•'  Ah  !  I  remmeber  the  name,  but  I  should  not  recognise  his 
portrait  I  suppose  you  left  this  one  at  home,  and  Emma 
found  it." 

"  No ;  I  have  mine  now.  Where  did  the  girl  get  this,  I 
wonder.     I  must  run  and  put  it  back." 

She  had  barely  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  when  she  heard 
Annie  enter  the  house.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave 
the  muddle  untouched  and  apologise.  She  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  to  wait  for  the  girl,  who  was  not  long  in  coming. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Emma,"  she  said,  laughing ;  *'  I  was 
hoping  to  get  this  straight  before  you  came  back,  but  you  were 
too  quick  for  me.  1  would  apologise,  but  really  it  is  your  own 
fault  for  not  locking  your  box.  Evidently,  you  have  never 
lived  in  a  family  where  there  were  marauders  of  this  sort." 

"  Oh,  it's  the  childern,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  smilingly ; 
"  never  mind,  as  long  as  they've  bin  quiet." 

As  she  spoke  her  eye  fell  upon  the  scattered  contents  of  the 
worn  envelope.     Mrs.  Kemble  watched  her. 

"  They  have  turned  out  all  your  secrets,"  she  said  lightly, 
"  even  to  this  portrait  of  a  gentleman." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Annie,  stretching  out  her  hand  to 
take  the  photograph. 

"  I  was  quite  surprised.  In  my  happy  school-days  he  was 
one  of  my  heroes." 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  You  know  who  he  is,  don't  you  ?  But  of  course  you 
do." 


**aLlnt>sai?  %c  diuesne,  tbe  jfamous  Uenor"    171 

"  That  I  don't,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  tranquilly,  commencing 
to  pick  up  her  scattered  property. 

"  Then  what  makes  you  keep  his  portrait  ?  " 

"I  kep'  it,  ma'am,  because  it's  so  much  like  somebody  I 
knowed  years  ago." 

"  Ah  !  I  see." 

Annie's  face  was  inscrutable,  her  manner  quite  collected. 
She  knew  she  was  being  probed,  and  had  no  intention  of 
betraying  herself  by  as  much  as  a  flinch.  If  secrecy  had  never 
been  necessary  before,  it  was  necessary  now. 

"  That  is  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Le  Quesne,"  her  inquisitor  went 
on,  "  the  famous  tenor." 

"  What  is  that,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  I  mean,  he  has  a  tenor  voice.  He  is  a 
professional  singer,  and  considered  by  many  to  be  only  second 
to  Sims  Reeves." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  singin',  ma'am." 

"  I  suppose  not.  I  adore  music.  In  fact,  I  ought  to  have 
kept  it  up  and  followed  it.  My  voice  was  good  enough  once. 
But  girls  are  such  fools — they  think  they  must  marry,  if  they 
die  for  it  1" 

Annie  went  on  straightening  her  box,  repeating  a  name  to 
herself  the  while,  and  waiting  in  keen  anxiety  to  hear  it  spoken 
again. 

"  You  knowed  the  gentleman,  then,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Le  Quesne  ?  No,  I  cannot  say  I  knew  him  personally. 
I  have  heard  him  sing,  and  have  seen  him  many  times.  When 
I  was  an  Academy  student  he  used  to  come  and  sing  for  us 
sometimes,  with  other  'stars,'  and  was,  oh,  so  delightfully 
pleasant  and  nice !  His  voice  was  so  perfect  that  he  took  his 
place  in  the  front  rank  without  the  long  struggle  which  falls  to 
the  share  of  most  professionals.  He  has  been  marvellously 
successful.  I  saw  him  only  last  May.  He  crossed  from  Calais 
to  Dover  in  the  same  boat  with  my  husband  and  me." 

Annie's  hands  were  mechanically  replacing  her  tumbled 
belongings.  Annie's  heart  was  beating  anything  but 
mechanically. 

"  He  was  with  Mdlle.  Le  Breton,  the  lady  he  is  going  to 
marry — kas  married  by  this  time,  I  suppose." 

The  kneeling  figure  in  front  of  the  open  trunk  bent  lower, 
lower,  until  the  set,  pale  face  was  quite  hidden. 

"She  is  a  singer,  too,"  Mrs.  Kemble  continued,  wondering 
whether  the  girl  was  keeping  out  of  sight  on  purpose.  "  Her 
name  is  French,  but  she  is  English.     She  is  even  more  famous 


172  Hnnic  H)cane 

than  he,  and  a  remarkable  woman  in  many  ways — so  thoroughly 
good  and  charitable  !     But  then,  she  is  a  Roman  Catholic." 

Annie  spoke  at  last.  Her  voice  sounded  hollow,  but  that 
may  have  been  because  she  was  bending  over  her  box. 

"  I  s'pose  he's  very  fond  of  her,  ma'am?  " 

"  Fond  of  her !  He  worships  her !  "  returned  Mrs.  Kemble 
pettishly,  as  if  the  thought  of  it  annoyed  her.  "  She  is 
a  beautiful  woman,  quite  as  old  as  he  is.  I  watched 
them  drive  up  to  the  pier.  Her  hands  were  full  of  flowers, 
besides  those  her  maid  carried,  so  in  getting  out  of  the  carriage 
her  dress  caught  the  step  and  she  all  but  fell.  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  laughed  outright  because  she  blushed  so.  They 
looked  so  happy  and  so  absurdly  proud  of  each  other  that  I 
envied  them.  '  What  a  life ! '  I  said  to  myself.  '  Beauty — 
talent — opportunity — wealth — and  happiness!'  Oh,  Emma, 
some  people  have  it  all  in  this  world  !" 

"An'  some  haves  nothink,"  responded  Emma,  with  quiet 
bitterness. 

"  That  is  true.  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  difference  a 
short  sea-voyage  made  in  Miss  Le  Breton.  She  is  a  wretched 
sailor,  and  when  she  landed  she  was  half  dead.  It  is  great 
fun  to  see  how  ashamed  most  men  look  of  their  sea-sick 
womankind.  They  either  stalk  on  in  front  or  pretend  they 
have  lost  something,  and  stay  behind  to  look  for  it.  And 
really  a  seasick  person  is  a  ghastly  fright.  I  noticed  that  Mr. 
Le  Quesne  neither  stalked  on  ahead  nor  lagged  behind,  but 
carried  the  poor  girl  up  the  steps,  and  was — oh,  so  kind  to  her  I" 

"  They're  married  now,  you  say,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  I  have  not  seen  it  announced,  but  I  daresay 
it  has  been,  for  all  that." 

Annie  rose  from  her  knees,  and  went  to  the  table  for  her 
cap.      Mrs.  Kemble  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  bed. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  the  children  have  given  you  so  much  extra 
work,"  she  said  lightly,  as  she  ran  downstairs. 

Annie  closed  the  door,  then  stood  with  her  back  against  it, 
holding  her  swelling  heart  with  both  hands.  Her  breath  was 
coming  in  gasps,  and  the  pent-up  tears  would  not  come  at  all, 
although  she  tried  to  cry,  feeling  that  unless  she  did  she  would 
burst  into  one  of  those  storms  of  tearless  sobs  over  which  she 
had  no  control,  and  which,  by  alarming  the  inmates  of  the 
house,  would  betray  her.  She  staggered  to  the  washstand  and 
tried  to  swallow  some  water,  but  it  choked  her,  so  she  plunged 
hands  and  face  into  the  filled  basin,  then  walked  frantically  to 
and  fro  until  she  had  in  a  measure  regained  her  breath,  using 


**Xlnt)0as  Xc  (Siuesne,  tbc  jfamous  Uenoc"   173 

it,  when  she  did  regain  it,  only  to  cry,  as  she  had  done  years 
before  : 

"  God  help  me,  what  shall  I  do?  " 

Her  life  seemed  suddenly  inverted.  The  very  aim  and 
purpose  of  it  was  gone,  leaving  behind  it  a  desolate  and 
abandoned  creature,  who  had  no  foothold  upon  life  anywhere. 
She  had  been  so  strong,  so  steadfast,  so  patient  and  content  to 
wait  God's  time  ;  had  looked  forward,  with  a  faith  that  nothing 
could  shake,  to  the  day  which  should  reveal  to  her  that  man's 
identity,  upon  which  she  would  be  able  to  utter  a  name, 
knowing  it  for  his.  That  day  had  come.  She  knew  his  name — 
only  to  know,  too,  the  name  of  the  woman  who  was  to  share  it. 
The  thought  maddened  her,  and  turned  her  into  a  fury.  She 
suddenly  burst  out  laughing  as  she  thought  how  patiently,  how 
reverently  she  had  been  following  a  phantom.  Perish  patience 
henceforth  and  for  ever  !  Perish  reverence  and  meekness  and 
unquestioning  submission  to  a  bitter  yoke !  What  were  all  these 
things  to  her,  seeing  that  by  the  aid  of  none  of  them  might 
she  hope  ever  to  come  face  to  face  with  the  father  of  her  boy ! 

Also,  this  failure  of  one  part  of  her  scheme  showed 
her  how  utterly  she  had  wasted  effort  in  another  direction. 
For  five  long  years  she  had  striven  upon  her  knees  to  root  out 
of  her  heart  its  love  for  this  man.  She  expected  nothing  from 
him,  she  would  ask  nothing.  She  knew  she  dared  not  reopen 
any  guilty  connection  with  him,  for  that  would  imperil  her  own 
soul  and  his.  So  she  had  believed  that  she  had  succeeded  in 
separating  from  her  thought  of  him  all  purely  selfish  interest, 
had  conquered  herself  suflficiently  to  think  of  him  only  in 
connection  with  the  child.  Now  even  that  link  must  be 
severed;  not  even  it  could  have  any  power  to  connect  her 
with  the  husband  of  another  woman. 

The  husband  of  another  woman  !  The  very  sting  of  it  lay 
there ;  for  in  all  her  thought  of  hitn  she  had  not  thought  of 
him  as  that.  By  this  she  knew  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  striving, 
she  loved  him  selfishly  still.  Failure  !  failure  on  every  side ! 
She  must  give  up  the  past  and  go  upon  a  different  plan. 

As  she  paced  her  narrow  room  with  increasing  steadiness,  Mrs. 
Kemble's  light  word-sketches  came  back  to  her  each  in  turn: 
"  They  looked  so  happy  and  so  proud  of  each  other  "  ;  "  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  laughed  " ;  "  He  carried  her  up  the 
steps,  and  was — oh,  so  kind  to  her !  "  Annie's  breath  steadied, 
regulated,  then  came  quietly  and  evenly  as  usual.  Why 
should  they  two  be  so  happy  ?  Did  his  wife  love  him  too 
blindly  to  care  what  his  past  had  been  so  that  his  future  was 


174  Hnnie  2)eane 

hers  ?  What  name  was  that  ?  She  tried  to  spell  it  over  to 
herself — L-e-k-w-a-n-e.  That  was  what  her  ignorance  made  of 
Mrs.  Kemble's  two  swift  syllables.  Surely  an  odd  name? 
One  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  before.  Well,  now  she  knew 
it,  and  could  trace  him  at  any  time.  He  being  a  man  of  note 
in  the  world,  anyone  could  tell  her  where  to  find  him.  Why 
not  find  him  now  ?  Why  not  go  to  him  and  say,  "  Before  you 
settle  down  to  your  married  life,  will  you  throw  a  thought 
backward  to  a  girl  who  was  only  good  enough  for  you  to  amuse 
yourself  with,  and  not  even  good  enough  for  that,  long?  I  am 
that  girl.  I  am  not  come  to  you  for  myself,  being  too  low  and 
common,  with  no  chance  of  ever  being  higher  or  more  desirable ; 
but  here  is  your  son.  What  about  him  ?  Is  he  to  be  low  and 
common  too,  or  will  you  give  him  the  same  chance  with  the 
sons  who  may  be  born  to  you  later  on,  who  will  not  be  one 
whit  more  yours  than  hel  If  you  doubt  that  he  is  yours,  take 
him,  look  at  him,  look  at  his  eyes  and  then  at  your  own.  Ask 
any  fair  judge  if  there  be  any  resemblance  between  you,  and  if 
that  fair  judge  say  "  No,"  then  I  will  take  him  away,  and 
will  trouble  you  no  more." 

She  sat  down,  shaking  in  every  limb. 

She  would  do  it.  Wife  or  no  wife,  she  would  go  to  him. 
Why  should  she  slave  night  and  day  to  keep  his  son,  when  he 
was  living  in  luxury,  in  sunny,  married  happiness  with  a  lady, 
pampered  like  himself  ? 

So  he  was  kind  to  her,  was  he  ?  Well,  that  was  his  way, 
and  after  all  meant  little.  Time  was  when  he  had  held  the 
brambles  back  from  hurting  even  her  poor,  ill-shod  feet,  when 
he  had  pushed  aside  the  tough  hazel-twigs  that  they  might  not 
rebound  and  sting  her  face.  Once  one  had  done  so,  and  the 
tears  coming  into  her  eyes  at  the  pain  of  it,  he  had  laughed  in 
his  gentle  way,  and  taking  the  face  in  his  hands,  had  kissed  it. 
Her  face  flamed  now  as  she  remembered  that  kiss. 

"  They  shan't  have  it  all,"  she  burst  out,  in  a  fury.  "  I'll 
take  Lin,  and  I'll  go  and  find  him.  Lin's  as  much  his  as  any 
son  s?ie  will  ever  have.  He  won't  deny  it.  He'll  know  it's 
naked  truth.  And  she  ?  She'll  look  at  my  boy,  and  she  will 
know  it  too." 

All  the  gentle  influence  of  the  religion  to  which  she  had 
clung  passed  away  from  her,  leaving  her  a  new  creature.  There 
was  keen  comfort  in  this  strange  desire  for  vengtance,  in  this 
murderous  design  upon  his  happiness;  she  felt  exhilarated, 
buoyant.  She  answered  the  dining-room  bell  with  more  than 
her  usual  alacrity;  she  attended  to  the  tea  table  with  more 


"XfnDsa^  Xe  (Siuesne,  tbe  jfamous  XTenot"   17s 

than  her  usual  animation,  and  actually  smiled  at  Mrs.  Kemble 
when  she  met  that  lady's  attentive  eyes. 

"There's  no  sense  in  bein' meek,"  thought  she ;  "/'z'^fhad 
enough  to  forgive,  an'  now  she  shall  have  a  little  as  well.  He've 
got  heaps  o'  money.     Some  of  it  shall  go  to  keep  my  boy." 

At  half-past  twelve  she  went  up  to  bed,  very  tired,  and  with 
that  strange  exhilaration  dying  down.  She  commenced  at  once 
to  undress.  Her  Bible  lay  on  her  table,  but  that  could  go  for 
to-night.  So  could  her  prayers.  Of  what  good  were  prayers  ? 
God  helped  those  who  helped  themselves.  She  would  hence- 
forth pluck  up  heart  and  be  selfish.  Surfeited  with  self-denial 
and  drudgery,  she  was  going  to  begin  afresh.  She  blew  out 
her  candle  and  got  into  bed. 

But  sleep  would  have  none  of  her.  The  moonlight,  stream- 
ing in  through  the  uncurtained  window,  fell  straight  and 
steadily  upon  Sister  Ruth's  Lenten  present  to  her,  the  framed 
print  of  a  Thorn-crowned  Head;  the  face  of  Sister  Ruth 
herself,  gentle  and  saint-like,  came  and  stood  by,  looking  very 
earnest ;  the  face  of  a  man  she  reverenced,  second  only  to  his 
Master,  came  close  too,  and  his  deep,  never-to-be-forgotten 
voice  spoke  to  her  in  no  uncertain  tone,  telling  her  whither 
she  was  drifting. 

"  The  devil  is  with  you,"  it  said.  "  Get  up,  open  your  book, 
and  see  what  is  there  promised  to  those  who  have  courage  to 
stand  firm  to  the  end." 

She  got  up  and  opened  the  book  hap-hazard,  then  lit  her 
candle,  and  removed  her  finger  from  the  page. 

"  Delight  thou  in  the  Lord,  and  He  shall  give  thee  thy 
heart's  desire. 

•*  Commit  thy  way  unto  Him  and  trust  in  Him,  and  He 
shall  bring  it  to  pass." 

She  shut  the  book,  and,  kneeling  down,  prayed  as  usual. 
First  of  all  for  her  boy,  that  he  might  be  kept  unspotted  from 
the  world ;  then  for  her  people  in  the  distant  country  village, 
that  they  might  never  know  again  such  sorrow  as  she  had 
brought  upon  them;  then  for  the  kind  old  folks  who  had 
given  her  shelter  and  honest  payment  for  honest  work ;  then 
for  herself,  that  she  might  have  courage  to  endure  and  not  to 
question ;  and  finally,  for  that  man  so  far  above  her  in  a 
strange  and  sunny  atmosphere,  that  he  might  be  happy  in  the 
dear  love  of  a  better  woman  than  she. 

Against  that  last  prayer  the  whole  human  nature  of  her  rose 
up  in  fierce  revolt.     But  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hands  she 


176  Bnnle  iDcaue 

wrestled  with  it,  and,  wrestling,  threw  it  behind  her.  She 
knelt  there  long  after  all  power  to  pray,  or  even  to  think  con- 
nectedly, had  left  her  ;  knelt  on,  worn  out,  inert,  and  exhausted, 
but  she  had  won  her  blessing. 

**  I  can't  see  how,"  she  said,  as  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed 
in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun,  "  but  that's  of  no  account. 
What  I've  borne  for  the  last  six  years  I  can  bear  for  the  next. 
I'll  hold  on.  I  won't  doubt,  an'  some  day  I'll  see  as  God 
knowed  better  than  me." 

And  before  she  slept  there  dawned  upon  her  a  conviction 
that  it  was  indeed  God,  and  not  chance,  who  had  been  at  work 
in  her  humble  room  that  day.  Was  it  chance  that  had  sent 
her  out  on  a  trivial  errand  ?  Was  it  chance  which  had  set 
Mrs.  Kemble's  mischievous  children  to  turn  out  her  box? 
Was  it  chance  which  had  tossed  that  portrait  upon  the  floor, 
and  had  put  it  into  the  hands  of  a  woman  who  recognised  it  ? 
Was  it  chance  which  had  put  her  in  possession  of  that  man's 
name?  No,  of  a  surety  there  was  something  more  than 
chance  at  work  here  ! 

Quite  content  again,  and  in  charity  with  all  the  world,  Annie 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"my  crime's  the  worst  to  human  view" 

There  was  enough  to  be  done  in  Merryon  Square  just  then- 
Mrs.  Kemble  and  her  children  came  nearly  every  day.  Some- 
times to  a  mid-day  dinner,  sometimes  to  a  late  one,  sometimes 
to  a  high  tea  which  was  supposed  to  save  trouble,  but  did  not. 
Add  to  this  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Holt  was  continually  telling  her 
niece  to  pack  the  children's  little  things  in  something  handy, 
and  to  "  bring  them  in  the  cab,"  because  Emma  "  had  a  lot  of 
spare  time,  and  would  do  them  up  so  well,"  and  it  will  be 
seen  that  Emma  was  not  idle.  And  when  this  sort  of  thing 
had  gone  on  for  the  hottest  six  weeks  in  the  year,  she  really 
began  to  grow  weary. 

Mr.  Kemble  had  been  called  away  to  Liverpool,  but  had  left 
his  wife  a  free  hand  in  the  matter  of  engaging  "auntie's 
treasure,"  if  the  treasure  were  willing. 

"  By  the  way,  auntie,  have  you  spoken  to  Emma  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Kemble,  on  the  day  of  her  husband's  departure. 

She  and  the  children  had  spent  it  in  Merryon  Square,  and 
were  lingering  over  a  latish  dinner  served  in  Emma's  best  style. 

*'  Yes,  yes,  my  love ;  of  course.  I  spoke  to  her  almost  as 
soon  as  you  spoke  to  me." 

"  Did  she  like  the  idea  of  going  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  seemed  to  welcome  the  thought  of  a  change.  No 
matter  how  kind  one  is  to  them,  they  always  do  that.  And 
then,  you  see,  she  is  a  country-bred  girl." 

"  I  will  speak  to  her  myself  presently." 

•*  Certainly,  love ;  when  you  like." 

Mr.  Holt  endeavoured,  without  success,  to  catch  his  wife's 
eye.  She  moved  her  chair,  and  sat  where  he  could  not  see 
her.  He  coughed  and  fidgeted,  and  trotted  about,  but  the 
old  lady  sat  unmoved,  dumbly  assuring  her  lord  and  master 
that  his  restlessness  was  understood  and  ignored.  Annie  was 
busy  at  her  ironing  board  with  Vy's  elaborate  frocks  and 
pinafores  when  Mrs.  Kemble  descended  to  the  kitchen,  with 

177  u 


178  Hnnie  Beane 

the  skirt  of  her  gown  well  up  on  her  arm,  and  her  eye  on  the 
alert  for  any  stray  article  of  a  polluting  character. 

Servants  usually  liked  Mrs.  Kemble.  She  might  be  selfish, 
exacting,  and  given  to  the  making  of  unnecessary  work,  but  she 
was  gracious  even  to  familiarity,  and  pleasant  selfishness  on 
the  part  of  a  very  pretty  woman  is  more  easily  looked  over  by 
S(;rvants  than  the  unbending  noli-ma-tangere,  different-order-of- 
being  manner  which  so  many  mistresses  think  it  correct  to 
adopt. 

Annie  rested  her  iron  and  dusted  a  chair. 

"Don't  leave  off,  or  I  shall  hinder  you,  because  I  have  a 
good  bit  to  say.  Auntie  told  you  how  much  I  should  like  to 
take  you  with  me?" 

*'  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  She  says  you  are  willing  to  come." 

"I  think  I'd  like  it,  ma'am.  I  haven't  felt  well  lately,  and 
Sister  'Lizabeth  said  last  Sunday  as  she  thought  I'd  better  have 
a  change." 

Mrs.  Kemble  looked  uneasy. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  it's  much,"  she  said  ;  "these  under- 
ground kitchens,  probably.  You  will  have  plenty  of  air  at 
home,  and  not  so  much  to  do.  There  is  an  awful  lot  to  do 
here,  I  am  sure,  and  aunt  always  vidis  faddy. ^^ 

This  last  in  an  undertone,  accompanied  by  a  confidential 
nod. 

"Well,  she  likes  everything  done  right,  but  as  long  as  I 
knows  how,  I  don't  mind  that.  I've  bin  rather  worryin',  ma'am, 
about  your  cookin'.  It  isn't  anythink  in  a  plain  way  I'm  afraid 
of,  but  about  the  fancy  things  an'  sweets.  Do  you  think  I'll 
be  able  to  manage  them  ?  " 

•'  Oh  !  pray  don't  worry  about  the  sweets,"  Mrs.  Kemble 
said  drily,  "you  can  manage  all  the  sweets  we  are  likely  to 
want  I  have  seen  quite  enough  in  the  last  few  weeks  to  tell 
that  you  can  undertake  our  cooking.  If  we  ever  go  the  length 
of  a  dinner-party,  Mr.  Kemble  must  hire  help  for  the  night ; 
and  for  a  supper,  there  is  always  a  convenient  pastry-cook." 

Annie  felt  surprised,  not  so  much  at  the  words  as  the  tone 
in  which  they  were  spoken. 

"About  the  wages,"  Mrs.  Kemble  went  on  thoughtfully. 
"  If  you  could  undertake  those  fine  things,"  with  a  nod  in  the 
direction  of  the  ironing,  "  I  could  gi\  e  you  five-and-tweniy 
pounds  a  year.  I  dare  not  offer  you  more ;  Mr.  Kemble  never 
had  any  idea  of  treating  anyone  fairly.  If  /  get  no  justice, 
how  can  servants  expect  any  ?  " 


♦*/Dl?  Crime's  tbc  Morst  to  t)uman  IDicw"  179 

Not  being  educated  up  to  the  point  of  concealing  her 
emotions,  Annie  stared  at  Mrs.  Kemble  in  surprise.  That 
lady  laughed. 

"  Hasn't  auntie  told  you  all  about  us  ?  "  she  said.  "  If  she 
hasn't,  the  others  will,  as  soon  as  you  get  there.  The  fact  is, 
we  may  be  grander  at  The  Warren  than  you  are  in  Merryon 
Square,  Emma  (oh,  let  me  see,  we  shall  call  you  *  Deane '),  but 
we  are  no  happier.  You  see,"  pulling  herself  up  sharply,  "  Mr. 
Kemble  is  many,  many  years  older  than  I,  and  in  marriages  of 
that  sort  there  is  always  so  much  for  the  wife  to  put  up  with. 
I  hope  you  will  try  to  make  things  a  little  easier  for  me  now. 
My  cooks  have  given  me  such  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"I'll  do  whatever  I  can,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  heartily.  "It 
won't  be  no  trouble  to  work  for  you,  Fm  sure." 

"  Most  of  the  girls  are  very  good  to  me,  leaving  out  the 
cooks,  who  are  women,  and  always  on  the  watch  to  feather 
their  own  nests ;  but  when  I  do  find  a  girl  who  considers  me 
or  waits  upon  me  too  much,  Mr.  Kemble  is  sure  to  mark  her 
out  for  speedy  dismissal,  so  you  must  be  careful." 

Annie  was  desperately  sorry  for  the  little  lady. 

"  What  a  pity  you  ever  married  him,  ma'am  ! "  said  she 
unguardedly. 

"  A  thousand  pities !  I  was  a  spoilt  baby,  Deane.  Aunt 
ruined  me.  It  was  all  done  in  kindness,  but  it  was  mistaken 
kindness.  Now  I  am  suffering  for  it.  I  thought  a  big  house 
in  a  park  was  all  any  woman  could  want,  besides  a  carriage 
and  diamonds.  I  wore  Mr.  Kemble's  mother's  tiara  and 
necklet  every  night  for  a  week  after  we  were  settled  at  The 
Wprren — then  he  took  every  bit  of  valuable  jewellery  to  the 
bank,  and  has  had  an  overdraught  on  it  ever  since  !  Oh !  I 
ought  not  to  talk  about  him  to  you ;  but  if  /  don't  tell  you 
somebody  else  will." 

"  But  you  must  ha'  bin  fond  of  him  when  you  wus  married, 
ma'am?"  said  Annie  timidly. 

Mrs.  Kemble  laughed  as  she  prepared  to  go  upstairs. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  Deane,"  said  she,  with  a  dainty  little 
grimace  expressive  of  disgust;  "all  that  sort  of  thing  was  on  his 
side.     I  thought  that  was  enough.     Girls  are  such  fools ! " 

When  she  had  left  the  kitchen,  her  new  servant  paused  in 
her  work,  trying  to  puzzle  this  matter  out.  Why  should  a 
lovely,  happy  girl,  such  as  Mrs.  Kemble  must  have  been  at 
eighteen,  have  married  a  man  of  fifty  for  whom  it  was  scarcely 
possible  she  could  care  ? 

"  I  s'pose  they  must  have  persuaded  her  into  it/'  thought 


i8o  Hnnic  Dcanc 

she,  "  like  our  folks  tried  to  persuade  me  into  marryin'  Jim. 
I'm  glad  I  never  done  that,  I'm  free,  an'  I'm  not  forced  to 
live  wi*  somebody  I  don't  like.  To  work  ever  so  hard  must  be 
better  than  that.  She  never  said  nothing  about  Lin.  As  soon 
as  I'm  settled  there  I  must  find  somebody  as'U  board  him." 

The  children  being  fretful,  Mrs.  Kemble  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  her  hotel.  In  consequence  of  this,  Annie  was  per- 
mitted to  leave  her  kitchens  in  disorder,  and  to  accompany 
her  future  mistress,  that  she  might  assist  in  putting  the  young 
rebels  to  bed. 

She  was  unavoidably  late  in  returning.  She  had  her  hot, 
untidy  kitchens  to  clear  up ;  it  was  long  past  supper-time,  and 
Mrs.  Holt  was  ruffled. 

"  So  inconsiderate  of  Mrs.  Kemble  to  keep  you  all  that 
time,"  she  said,  "  when  you've  so  much  to  do.  Really,  you 
ought  to  have  help,  but  it  is  too  late  to  go  for  Mrs.  Green 
to-night.     You  will  have  to  be  up  very  early  in  the  morning." 

When  she  carried  down  her  supper-tray,  Annie  looked  at  the 
clock  and  then  at  the  fireless  grate, 

•*  I  ought  to  finish  my  ironin',"  she  said  ruefully,  "  but  it'd 
be  so  long  'fore  the  fire  burnt  clear.  I'll  do  my  silver  for 
to-morrow.     That'll  be  a  help." 

When  she  went  to  bed  it  was  half-past  one.  She  set  her 
alarum  clock  at  five,  and  rose  by  it,  but  work  went  hardly  with 
her  that  day,  and  Mrs.  Holt  saw  it. 

•'It  is  a  good  thing  you  are  so  orderly  about  your  own 
things,"  she  said.  **  I  am  sure  they  are  all  tidy,  or  you  could 
never  have  been  ready  by  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  feel  I 
am  making  a  great  sacrifice — without  proper  notice  or  anything, 
too.  I  don't  know  how  I  ^Ati// manage.  But  I  never  did  refuse 
dear  Georgie  anything,  and — ah  1  now  I  think  of  it,  are  all  Mr. 
Holt's  shirts  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  did  them  a  Wednesday,  'stead  of  goin'  out, 
you  know." 

"Ah  I  but  the  half-dozen  'reserve'  shirts?" 

" Oh,  no,  ma'am,  not  them"  said  Annie,  in  dismay. 

"Well,  as  we  are  alone  to-day,  do  try.  Mr.  Holt  is  so 
particular,  and  nobody  can  do  up  those  shirts  as  you  can.  I 
wouldn't  ask  it  when  you  are  so  busy,  but  he  is  such  a  worry." 

Annie  toiled  uf)stairs  after  the  reserve  shirts,  and  about  four 
in  the  afternoon  was  rolling  them  up  into  six  nice,  damp  rolls, 
when  up  drove  a  cab,  depositing  Mrs.  Kemble  and  the 
children. 

"Only  to  tea,"  said  the  lovely  little  creature  coaxingly, 


"fJb^  Crime's  tbe  Wiovst  to  'fcuman  IDiew"  iSi 

**  because  you  are  so  busy.  And  we  will  put  up  with  bread 
and  butter  and  auntie's  nice  jam ;  won't  we,  Walter  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Walter  flatly,  "  we  don't  want  jam.  You  said 
we  tould  have  '  fiss '  at  auntie's,  you  know  you  did,  zest  'cos 
we  had  eggs  and  rice  puddin'  for  dinner." 

Mrs.  Kemble  turned  painfully  red,  and  smartly  slapped  the 
child,  at  which  he  precipitated  himself  to  the  floor,  where  he 
had  something  which  might  well  have  been  mistaken  by  the 
uninitiated  for  a  fit.  His  mother  put  her  hands  to  her  ears, 
but  took  no  further  notice.  When  the  fit  had  subsided  and 
the  child  was  intelligible,  he  continued  to  announce  that  he 
expected  "  fiss,"  that  he  meant  to  have  "  fiss,"  that  if  he  might 
not  have  "  fiss "  he  would  have  nothing,  and  he  would  make 
things  uncomfortable  as  far  as  he  was  able.  Unfortunately, 
his  capacity  for  making  things  uncomfortable  was  surprisingly 
great.  Mrs.  Holt  watched  his  mother's  distress  until  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  wiped  her  perspiring  forehead 
and  went  downstairs. 

"  Oh !  how  hot  it  is  here  ! "  she  cried  nervously,  "  but  it  is 
a  good  thing  you  have  a  clear  fire.  Those  dear  children  had 
a  make-shift  dinner,  nothing  but  eggs  and  a  rice  pudding. 
You  know  what  children  are,  Emma — they  want  a  bit  of 
fish.  Mrs.  Kemble  is  so  averse  to  troubling  you,  but  what 
can  she  do,  poor  thing,  when  Mr.  Kemble  won't  let  them  have 
what  is  really  necessary?  I  suppose  you  must  finish  that 
shirt,  or  it  will  be  too  dry ;  but  directly  you  have,  just  run  and 
see  if  you  can  get  a  pair  of  good  thick  soles.  If  you  have 
them  filleted,  they  will  be  so  Httle  trouble." 

Hot,  jaded,  and  done  up,  Annie  went  in  search  of  soles, 
found,  brought  them  home,  and  fried  them.  When  she  took 
in  the  tea-tray  the  little  old  man  might  have  been  seen  to  look 
at  her,  and  then  to  shake  his  fist  at  the  children  in  a  way 
which  might  have  been  playful,  but  which  certainly  looked 
vicious. 

"  You  rascals ! "  he  said,  under  his  breath,  '*  you  double- 
dyed  infantile  atrocities  !  If  only  I  had  my  way  with  you,  I 
would — I  would — ah  !  just  wouldnH  I  !  " 

He  dared  not  announce  openly  what  it  was  that  he  would 
do,  so  he  sat  fidgeting  on  his  chair,  wondering  if  this  were 
indeed  one  of  those  rare  times  which  called  for  him  to  assert 
himself.  Was  it  possible  that  he  ought,  he  really  ought ^  to 
pluck  up  the  courage  necessary  for  a  battle  with  his  wife. 

The  thought  bathed  him  in  a  cold  perspiration,  but  he 
grasped  it  right  manfully,  and  sat  and  shivered  in  his  shoes. 


i8a  Hnntc  Deane 

Tea  was  over,  the  children  were  in  the  garden,  Mrs.  Kemble 
lay  back  in  auntie's  chair;  auntie  sat  rigidly  upright,  knitting 
a  baby's  sock. 

Mr.  Holt  clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair,  preparing  for  a 
plunge.  Unless  he  made  it  now,  he  felt  there  would  be  a 
stain  upon  his  conscience  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  fidgeted 
violently  and  coughed. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Holt 
nervously. 

"  There  is,  my  love.  There  is  something  to  be  said  which 
at  present  has  not  been  said,  and  I  wish  the  matter  to  be 
cleared  up.     Have  you  told  Georgie  the  truth  about  Emma  ?  " 

Once  into  the  fray,  it  was  not  so  bad.  The  little  man  sat 
firm,  waiting  to  be  annihilated. 

"  Mr.  Holt,"  said  his  little  old  lady,  in  tremulous  tones  of 
anger,  "  I  have  told  Georgie  all  that  is  necessary." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  havf  told  her ;  I  must  say,  and  I  will 
say,  that  if  she  is  satisfied,  I  am  much  surprised.  She  is  the 
mistress  of  many  servants,  and  has  their  prejudices  to  con- 
sider. I  am  speaking  very  reluctantly.  I  only  want  to  know 
that  nobody  is  being  deceived — that  everything  is  open  and 
straightforward. " 

Mrs.  Holt  was  for  the  moment  speechless.  Mrs.  Kemble 
sat  forward  in  her  chair. 

*'  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  am  sure  /  don't  want 
to  fish  up  anything  ugly  in  the  girl's  past,  for  of  course  if  it 
were  anything  which  could  affect  her  now,  auntie  would  have 
told  me." 

"AflFect  her  now?"  repeated  the  little  old  man,  looking 
apoplectic,  "and  doesn't  it?  I  should  say  that  a  big  boy 
nearly  six  years  old  affects  her  pretty  much  in  the  eyes  of 
most  people." 

Mrs.  Kemble  rose. 

"A  boy?"  she  said  helplessly;  "whose  boy?  I  don't 
understand." 

Mrs.  Holt  regained  her  self-possession. 

"  Sit  down,  my  love,"  she  said  soothingly,  "  and  let  me 
explain.  But,  Mr.  Holt,  let  me  say  first  how  surprised  I  am, 
how  ashamed  I  am,  of  your  unpardonable  want  of — of — 
modesty  and  good  taste." 

"  I  can't  help  that,  my  dear,"  he  said  sturdily.  "  It  is  as  I 
thought — you  have  not  told  Georgie,  and  you  ought  to  have 
done  so." 

"  But,  uncle,  is  it  true  ?     Has  the  girl  a  child  of  her  own  ?  " 


"/IBs  Crime's  tbe  Morst  to  Ibuman  IDiew"  183 

"  Certainly  she  has,  a  boy  just  turned  five." 

"  Good  gracious  !  When  you  spoke  of  her  in  that  hesitating 
way,  I  thought  there  was  something — some  slip,  or  theft,  or 
imprisonment,  perhaps — all  past  and  done  with.  But  why  was 
I  not  told  right  out  ?     I  ought  to  have  been." 

"Just  what  I  said,'  said  the  little  man  ;  "just  what  I  said." 

"  But  indeed,  love,"  interposed  auntie  piteously,  "  I  did  not 
really  think  you  would  close  with  her  until  last  night.  I  made 
sure  something  would  happen  to  prevent  it,  and  I  did  not  care 
to  tell  you  before  you  had  engaged  her,  because,  you  see,  until 
then  I  had  no  right." 

"  She  ought  to  have  told  me  herself." 

"  I  think  perhaps  she  had  not  quite  seen  her  opportunity, 
and—" 

"  And,"  said  the  little  man  firmly,  "  I  have  no  doubt  that 
she  thinks  you  know.  She  would  not  intentionally  hide  it; 
I  am  sure  of  that" 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Kemble,  "  of  course,  this  puts  an  end  to 
everything.  I  couldn't  take  her  to  The  Warren  on  any  account ; 
why,  I  should  set  the  whole  house  by  the  ears." 

Upon  the  round  face  of  the  little  old  man  there  dawned 
an  unholy  joy. 

"  Just  what  I  thought,"  he  murmured  resignedly ;  "  exactly 
what  I  thought." 

His  wife,  with  one  great  sigh,  sank  into  a  state  of  humility. 

"I  suppose  I  was  wrong,"  she  said,  "but  I  thought  that, 
leaving  in  such  a  hurry,  Emma  would  be  safe  in  her  new  life 
before  you  found  out  about  the  child,  and  then  I  felt  sure  you 
would  overlook  it.  I  have  acted  all  for  the  best,  and  in  the 
true  spirit  of  unselfishness.  I  thought  I  was  securing  you  a 
servant  who  would  be  a  treasure  to  you,  and  I  knew  that  the 
increase  of  salary  would  mean  so  much  to  the  girl.  Also,  with 
the  boy  at  a  safe  distance,  nobody  need  have  been  the  wiser. 
In  fact,  I  have  always  said  that  Emma  would  do  better  to 
keep  the  boy  in  the  background." 

"  Which  she  won't  do,  you  know,"  explained  the  frustrator 
of  Mrs.  Holt's  plans ;  "  she  can't  be  prevailed  upon  to  hide  the 
boy  at  all.     She  doesn't  think  it  honest." 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  "  since  Mr.  Holt  has  chosen,  for 
some  extraordinary  motive  of  his  own,  to  come  forward  and 
interfere  with  my  plans  for  you  and  Emma,  I  can  only 
apologise,  and  wish  I  had  let  other  people  manage  their  own 
affairs.  I  am  sure  I  wonder  at  anyone  trying  to  do  a  good 
turn  in  this  world — it  is  a  most  ungrateful  task ! " 


i84  Hnntc  Deane 

Mrs.  Kemble  looked  impatient  and  irritable. 

"  Well,"  she  said  bluntly,  "  it  is  awfully  tiresome.  There  is 
the  possibility  of  inducing  the  girl  to  say  nothing;  about  the 
child.  If  she  can  keep  her  own  counsel,  I  am  sure  I  should 
not  publish  her  private  affairs.  Mr.  Kemble  would  know 
nothing  about  it,  and  everything  would  be  satisfactory." 

"Exactly!"  said  auntie,  beginning  to  beam  again.  "Let 
it  rest,  love,  and  let  things  take  their  course.  Say  nothing 
now,  and  when  you  get  Emma  safely  away,  simply  forbid  her 
mentioning  the  child.  Tell  her  if  she  does,  she  will  be 
instantly  dismissed.  She  is  very  amenable  to  discipline ;  she 
will  not  rebel.  Once  in  Essex,  she  will  see  the  difficulty  of 
getting  away,  and  you  will  be  able  to  manage  her  easily." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Mrs.  Kemble.  "I  couldn't  take 
her  with  me  unless  we  came  to  a  definite  understanding 
first." 

"Then,  my  love,  it  will  end  in  your  loss.  Get  her  away, 
and  you  can  make  your  own  terms." 

Mrs.  Kemble  angrily  shook  her  head,  picked  up  her  dainty 
skirts,  and  left  the  room. 

When  she  had  gone,  the  old  gentleman  sat  and  trembled. 
He  had  won  a  moral  victory,  but  it  had  left  him  weak.  His 
little  lady  sat  and  trembled  too,  so  violently  that  the  tiny 
silver  oats  in  her  best  cap  played  a  tiny  tinkling  tune,  but 
never  one  word  she  said.  She  looked,  however,  a  great  deal ; 
she  looked  so  much  that  Mr.  Holt  became  nervous,  and 
finding  the  situation  too  strong  for  him,  trotted  out  to  the 
garden  and  took  refuge  with  the  children. 

When  Mrs.  Kemble  entered  the  kitchen,  Annie  was  on  the 
floor  in  the  midst  of  the  scattered  contents  of  her  housemaid's 
box. 

"  It's  very  dirty  an'  dusty  here  just  now,  ma'am,"  she  said 
wearily.  "I'm  cleanin'  up,  an'  shan't  be  long  if  you 
wants  me." 

"  I  do  want  you.  How  I  hate  a  kitchen  after  a  meal  with 
any  suspicion  of  cooking  in  it !  And  oh,  how  the  fish  smells  ! 
Really,  kitchens  ought  to  be  right  away  from  where  one  lives." 

Annie  tried  to  smile,  and  putting  one  hand  to  her  forehead, 
left  a  smear  of  blacklead  across  it,  which  did  not  improve  her 
appearance. 

"  I  have  just  heard  something,"  Mrs.  Kemble  said  irritably, 
**  and  unless  you  and  I  can  come  to  some  understanding  about 
it,  our  compact  must  fall  through.  I  had  no  idea  that  you  had 
a  son." 


"  ffb^  Crime's  tbc  Morst  to  Ijuman  Dfew  "  185 

Annie  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  leaned  against  the  dresser, 
while  the  hot  kitchen  seemed  to  revolve. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault  you  didn't  know,  ma'am.  I  ast  the 
missus  if  she'd  told  you,  an'  as  near  as  I  can  remember, 
she  said,  *0h,  of  course.'  Yes,  I  am  sure  that's  what  she 
said." 

"That  is  about  what  she  would  say,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble 
rudely,  "but  she  has  acted  foolishly,  and  I  feel  rather 
annoyed.  If  I  had  had  a  notion  of — of — this,  I  should  not 
have  engaged  you." 

Annie  put  her  hand  to  her  head  again,  and  waited  until  its 
throbbing  had  subsided. 

"  There's  an  end  of  it,  then,  ma'am,"  said  she  quietly,  "  an' 
I  can  only  say  agen,  it  isn't  my  fault." 

After  which  she  expected  Mrs.  Kemble  to  depart,  but 
finding  her  expectation  vain,  said : 

"  Shall  we  let  it  be  at  that,  ma'am  ?  I  can't  go  with  you,  so 
will  you  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  finish  here  ?  I've  had  some 
hard  days  an'  some  long  days  lately,  an*  next  to  no  rest.  I'm 
pretty  well  done." 

She  wondered  at  her  impertinence  in  thus  addressing  a  lady, 
but  she  was  "pretty  well  done,"  and  at  the  end  of  caring 
about  anything  or  anybody,  even  herself. 

"  Oh,  that's  not  it  at  all,''  said  Mrs.  Kemble,  much  surprised. 
"It  is  all  very  well  to  say  the  matter  ends  here,  but  what 
about  me  ?  What  about  the  inconvenience  to  which  /  shall 
be  put?  Just  think  how  foolish  I  shall  look  if  I  have  to 
explain  to  my  husband  that  I  engaged  you  without  a  single 
reference — simply  on  my  aunt's  word.  It  was  such  a  ridiculous 
thing  to  do.  I  cannot  imagine  how  I  came  to  do  it.  Mr. 
Kemble  will  say  that  anyone  can  hoodwink  me." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  ma'am,  an'  that's  all  I  can  say." 

"That  is  of  no  use.  The  thing  is,  what  shall  we  do? 
What  was  your  idea  about  the  child  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  had  you  any  notion  of  taking  him  with  you  ?  " 

**  Yes,  ma'am.  I  thought  I'd  find  somebody  there  as  would 
board  him,  an'  when  I  had,  I'd  send  for  him." 

"  Impossible — quite  impossible  ! " 

"Very  well,  ma'am." 

"  Of  course,  he  is  off  your  hands  ?  I  mean — does  he  cost 
you  anythmg  ?  " 

"I've  paid  for  him  now  more  than  a  year.  He's  at  St. 
Saviour's  Schools." 


1 86  Hnnte  Deane 

"  Well,  then,  leave  him  there.  At  least,  he  is  better  cared 
for  than  he  would  be  outside.  To  take  him  away  would  be 
ridiculous." 

"Then  I  shouldn't  go  away  myself,  ma'am.  I  wouldn't  go 
nowhere  that  I  couldn't  see  him  once  a  week.  That's  my 
holiday — Wednesdays — an'  Lin's,  too ;  an'  it's  all  the  pleasure 
we've  got  to  look  forward  to." 

"But  you  forget  that  you  have  engaged  to  go  with  me. 
You  are  my  servant,  and  I  cannot  let  your  scruples  about 
leaving  your  boy  behind  interfere  with  my  arrangements.  I 
shall  hold  you  to  our  compact.  That  is  a  settled  thing ;  it  is 
not  to  be  upset.  I  am  only  here  to  say  that  as  long  as  you 
remain  with  me  nobody  must  know  anything  of  this  stain  upon 
your  character.  Surely  if  I  consent  to  overlook  it,  you  ought 
to  be  thankful  to  hold  your  tongue  !  None  of  the  people  at 
The  Warren  must  get  a  hint.  I  should  be  servantless  at  the 
end  of  a  month.  So  don't  be  tempted  to  confide  in  anyone; 
send  your  boy's  money  when  you  are  out  alone ;  and  be  sure 
never  to  leave  your  letters  about.  That  is  all  you  have  to 
remember,  and  it  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  Don't  go  yet,  please,  ma'am,"  said  Annie,  "  because  that 
doesn't  end  it.  You  can't  hold  me  to  any  engagement. 
There's  nothing  bindin'  bin  done.  It's  not  my  fault  you've 
bin  put  to  this  trouble,  so  now  I  must  ast  you  to  let  me  alone, 
for  I'm  that  bad  to-night,  how  to  do  what  I've  got  to  do,  I 
don't  know." 

"But  you  will  be  better  after  a  night's  rest  I  shall  not 
leave  London  until  the  afternoon." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  I'm  not  goin'." 

"  But  I  shall  expect  you  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble  excitedly, 
•*  and  I  am  quite  sure  aunt  will  expect  it  too.  Good  gracious, 
girl,  are  situations  in  gentlemen's  families  so  plentiful  that  you, 
with  your  history,  can  afford  to  refuse  one  ?  Come,  now, 
think  it  over.  Say  you  leave  here,  where  do  you  think  you 
would  be  received  if  you  persisted  in  telling  people  what  they 
need  not  know  ?     Into  no  good  service,  that  is  certain." 

"I've  stuck  to  my  boy  for  five  years,  ma'am.  I've  never 
denied  him,  nor  yet  tried  to  pass  myself  off  for  something  as 
I'm  not,  an'  I  shan't  begin  now." 

"  But  you  will  have  to." 

"No,  ma'am— I  don't  think  so.  When  I  left  the  Home, 
Mrs.  Holt  wanted  me  to  hide  the  child,  an'  I  was  p'r'aps  a  bit 
tempted  to ;  but  then  I  made  up  my  mind  and  said  *  No,'  an' 
stuck  to  it,  an'  Sister  Ruth,  the  best  one  o'  them  all,  come  to 


**/ftg  Crime's  tbe  Morst  to  Ibuman  li)iew"  187 

me  when  she  heard  o*  what  I  said,  an'  she  says,  *  You're  quite 
right ;  you've  got  to  begin  afresh,  and  you'll  do  it  better  with 
the  child  in  your  arms  ;  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  you.  You  had 
the  wrong  sort  of  courage  to  face  the  sin  ;  now  you  must  have 
the  right  sort  to  face  the  consequences.  Never  deceive  any- 
body. Tell  the  truth  on  every  occasion,  when  you  see  it 
necessary  for  a  right  understanding  between  you  and  some- 
body else.  That  does  not  mean  that  you  need  cry  it  on  the 
house-tops.  It  may  be  years  before  you  win  back  people's 
respect ;  but  you  will  win  it ;  and  the  child  who  looks  to  you 
and  speaks  to  you  openly  as  "  mother  "  will  be  your  help.'  I 
never  forgot  what  she  said,  an'  I  know  I  find  out  how  true  it 
was." 

"  Sentimental  rubbish  !  How  can  the  child  help  you  ? 
Will  he,  when  he  grows  up,  repay  you  for  your  extra- 
conscientious  publication  of  his  private  misfortune  along  with 
your  own  ?  Not  he !  Believe  me,  he  would  far  rather  you 
left  people  to  believe  that  he  was  respectable.  Will  he  repay 
you  for  standing  in  your  own  light  to  announce  to  everyone 
that  he  had  only  one  parent  instead  of  the  regulation  two? 
Not  he  !  He  will,  in  all  probability,  be  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  you,  and  that  is  all.  I  know  that  sounds  brutal,  but  it  is 
common  sense,  and  a  little  common  sense  is  worth  a  great 
deal  of  mawkish  sentiment." 

**  I  can't  understand  what  you're  sayin',  ma'am,"  said  Annie 
patiently;  "but  one  thing  I  can  see  is,  that  you  an'  me  would 
never  think  alike." 

"That  is — fortunate,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble,  a  trifle  insulted. 
"  I  am  very  glad  that  we  two  are  not  asked  to  view  life  from 
the  same  standpoint.  But  what  about  this  child?  Shall  I 
take  you  into  my  service  as  Mrs.  Deane,  a  widow  ?  Then  the 
child  would  seem  all  right  enough.  There  !  surely  that  will 
meet  the  case.     I  wonder  you  have  not  done  that  before." 

Annie  shook  her  head. 

**  It  would  not  be  the  truth,  ma'am,  an'  I  can't  take  on  the 
worry  of  a  lie  now.  If  I  goes  to  your  place,  I  do  my  work,  an' 
I  harm  nobody.  What's  gone  before  in  my  life  is  no  business 
o'  nobody's." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  can't  you  see  that  a  thing  like  this  is  just  the 
business  that  is  everybody's.  It  is  the  one  crime  for  which  a 
woman  never  gets  forgiven — the  one  thing  against  her  which  is 
never  permitted  to  be  forgotten.  And  really,  I  only  say  what 
I  think  when  I  say  that  it  strves  her  right ;  for  to  throw  away 
all   one   has — one's   very   life,   indeed — lor  love  of  a  brutal, 


iM  Hnnie  "Bcmc 

selfish  man  is,  before  everything,  idiotic.  It  is  the  very 
stupidest  thing  conceivable." 

Mrs.  Kemble  turned  contemptuously  on  her  little  Wurteraberg 
heel.  Everyone  knew  that  she  had  a  fiery  temper,  and  a  long 
series  of  pitched  battles-matrimonial  had  made  her  coarse  of 
speech. 

"  And  yet,  ma'am,  to  my  mind,  you  yourself  done  somethink 
quite  as  bad,  if'twasn't  worse" 

A  pause.  Mrs.  Kemble  turned  again  on  her  heel,  and 
stood  transfixed  with  astonishment.  Annie,  white  as  a  sheet 
with  the  pain  of  her  head  and  the  effort  necessary  to  conquer 
her  natural  submission  to  her  superiors,  leaned  heavily  against 
the  dresser,  and  bit  her  lips  to  ktep  them  from  twitching. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble  at  last,  "  but  what 
was  that  you  said  ?     Surely  I  misunderstood  you  ?  " 

"  I  said,  ma'am,  that  to  my  mind  you'd  done  somethink 
quite  as  bad,  if  not  worse  j  an'  I  say  now  that  I'd  rather  be  like 
/am  than  I'd  be  likej'd?«  are." 

"  In  the  name  of  everything  that  is  ridiculous,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  What  I've  said,  ma'am.  You  haven't  spared  me,  nor  took 
any  thought  o'  whether  I'd  any  feelin'  or  none,  so  I'm  saying 
just  what  I  thinks  to  be  right.  I  don't  want  to  make  any 
excuses  for  what  I've  done.  Nobody  could  see  plainer  than  I 
can  the  sin  o'  the  thing,  though  I  didn't  properly  see  it  at  the 
time,  for  I  wus  but  a  bit  of  a  baby,  a  few  months  past  sixteen. 
I  was  jest  as  ignorant  o'  what  things  is  as  your  little  children 
out  there  at  play." 

She  stopped  and  controlled  her  shaky  voice.  Mrs.  Kemble's 
curiosity  was  aroused.     What  was  the  girl  going  to  tell  her  ? 

*'  I  never  had  no  pleasures — not  what  you'd  call  pleasures, 
ma'am — nor  nobody  to  think  I  wanted  any,  for  I  wus  on'y  one 
out  of  a  lot,  an'  we  wus  very  poor.  I've  heard  you  talk  about 
bein'  poor,  ma'am,  but  I  means  that  sort  o'  poorness  what 
don't  give  you  enough  to  eat,  an'  keeps  the  children  a-bed 
while  you  washes  out  their  clothes  for  Sundays.  I've  worked 
hard  enough  since  I've  bin  here,  an'  lately  I've  done  more 
than  one  pair  o'  hands  can  do  for  long  together ;  but  ever  since 
I  was  a  child  I  can  remember  nothing  but  hard  work,  with 
nursin'  a  heavy  baby  for  a  kind  o'  rest.  When  I  goes  to  bed 
now  I  often  think  o'  my  bed  on  the  floor  at  home.  It  was  the 
best  as  mother  coald  give  me,  but  there  wusn't  much  comfort 
in  it,  ma'am,  for  a  girl  that  worked  from  five  in  the  mornin'  to 
seven  at  night,  an'  offen  later  than  that.     Mother  wus  such  a 


**ab^  Crime's  tbe  Worst  to  Duman  IDlew"  189 

slave  herself  that  I  don't  s'pose  she'd  got  time  to  think  it  wus 
hard  on  me,  but  it  wus.  A  girl  what's  young  don't  always 
want  to  be  a  slave,  even  if  'tis  to  her  own  brothers  an'  sisters. 
Then  in  the  middle  o'  all  that  there  come  along  that  man.  He 
wus  nothink  like  any  man  I'd  ever  had  to  do  with ;  he  was  the 
sort  o'  man  as  even  you,  ma'am,  might  be  proud  to  think  as  he 
took  notice  of  you.  He  took  a  lot  o'  notice  o'  me,  an'  wus  that 
kind  to  me  an'  friendly-like  in  his  ways  that  I  sort  of  got  deaf 
an'  blind  to  everythink  but  him." 

Mrs.  Kemble,  becoming  interested,  perched  herself  on  the 
edge  of  the  kitchen  table. 

"  Did  your  parents  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am  ;  I  met  him  on  the  sly." 

*'  You  were  quite  old  enough  to  know  f/iaf  was  wrong." 

"  Quite  old  enough,  ma'am,  I'm  not  trying  to  excuse  myself 
at  all.  I'm  on'y  tryin'  to  show  you  what  sort  o'  life  I'd  bid, 
an'  what  a  wonderful  thing  it  wus  to  me  to  be  made  a  fuss  of 
by  somebody  like  him.  I  got  right  out  o'  myself.  I  had  no 
more  thought  o'  myself  than  if  I'd  bin  a  stock  or  a  stone.  I 
wus  what  you'd  call  a  fool,  but — if  my  right  hand  could  ha* 
done  him  any  good,  I'd  ha'  gone  for  the  rest  o'  my  life  without 
one.  Mind,  ma'am,  that  man  never  promised  me  nothink  at 
all ;  I  jest  throwed  myself  away  for  the  pleasure  o'  bein'  with 
him,  o'  bein'  somethink  to  do  with  him,  bad  as  it  wus." 

"It  was  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble,  filling  in  the  pause,  "and 
as  I  said — very  foolish." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  that  wus  me,  an'  now  here  am  I,  a  ruined 
woman  ;  an',  as  you  says,  it  serves  me  right.  But  when  you've 
said  that,  ma'am,  I  can't  help  thinkin'  o'  you.  You  wus  older 
than  me,  an'  had,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  everythink  as  heart  could 
wish  for — edjucation  to  learn  you  what  wus  right,  plenty  o'  love 
an'  kindness,  an'  all !  There  come  along  to  you  a  man  what 
wus  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  an',  if  I  judge  right,  older 
than  that,  an'  you  throwed  yourself  away  jest  as  sure  as  ever  I 
did,  not  for  the  sake  o'  him,  but  for  the  sake  o'  what  he'd  got. 
You've  told  me  that  yourself  Wusn't  you  old  enough  to  know 
that  wus  wrong  ?  I  think  so.  You're  glad  to  say  that  us  two 
isn't  ast  to  look  at  things  from  the  same  point  o'  view,  and, 
ma'am,  so  am  I,  for  I  do  say  that  I  could  sooner  forgive  a  girl 
who  sold  herself  for  love  than  one  what  sold  herself  for  money. 
It  means  the  same  ruin  to  both  of  'em,  when  you  looks  at  it 
right ;  but  at  least  the  one  what  sells  herself  for  love  don't  go  to 
church  an'  call  God  to  witness  a  wicked  He.  I'm  an  unhappy 
woman,  ma'am,  an'  you  are  the  one  to  say  it  serves  me  right. 


190  Hnnie  S>eane 

I  mustn't  say  that  to  you,  because  it's  not  my  place,  but  I  can 
think  what  I  like,  ma'am,  can't  I  ?  " 

Having  said  which,  Annie  stumbled  forward  and  fell  in  a 
heap  upon  the  floor. 

Mental  excitement  had  put  the  finishing  touch  to  physical 
exhaustion,  had  laid  the  last  straw  on  the  back  of  the  proverbial 
camel,  and  the  result  was  collapse. 

Almost  as  white  as  the  girl,  Mrs.  Kemble  felt  her  way  out  of 
the  kitchen  and  up  the  dark  stairs.  Then  she  burst  open  the 
dining-room  door. 

"  I  know,"  she  gasped  out,  "  I  know  that  absence  makes  a 
vast  difference  to  people's  affection  for  one ;  but  I  never,  never 
thought  that  you  would  have  permitted  me  to  be  insulted  in  this 
house  by  an  ignorant,  impertinent  servant  girl !  " 

And,  oh,  what  a  hllaloo  there  was  that  night  in  Merryon 
Square  1 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"the  bkst  voice  of  the  lot" 

Annie  came  back  to  herself  later  on  amid  the  scattered  con- 
tents of  her  housemaid's  box,  with  a  feeling  of  close  proximity 
to  something  loathsome.  This  proved  to  be  an  immense 
horror  of  the  beetle  tribe,  promenading  leisurely  upon  her 
bare  arm.  She  hurled  the  thing  away,  then  pulled  herself  up 
by  a  friendly  chair,  sat  down  on  it,  leaned  her  head  against  the 
wall,  and  gave  herself  up  to  lethargy.  She  heard  the  patter  of 
the  children's  feet  in  the  hall,  and  the  banging  of  the  front 
door,  connecting  these  sounds  with  the  departure  of  Mrs. 
Kemble. 

Long  after  dark  some  one  came  into  the  kitchen,  struck  a 
light,  and  stood  looking  at  her.  With  some  effort  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  saw  Mrs.  Green,  the  woman  who  occasionally 
came  in  to  help.  That  lady  lit  the  gas,  turned  up  the  skirt  of 
her  gown,  and  fastened  it  behind  her  with  the  big  cameo  brooch 
she  had  taken  out  of  her  shawl. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Annie  stupidly,  "is  it  Saturday?  You 
needn't  have  come.     I'm  not  goin'  now." 

The  woman  nodded  indulgently. 

"  Where's  your  friends  ? "  she  said,  speaking  with  raised 
voice,  as  if  the  girl  were  deaf. 

Annie  could  not  trouble  to  explain. 

"  Because  you've  done  enough  for  a  bit,  and  if  you've  got 
nobody  else,  then  I'll  take  you  home  for  a  rest.  P'r'aps  now 
you'll  see  that  I  was  right  when  I  said  you  was  a  fool  ever  to 
do  what  you  have  done  here.  It's  bin'  all  right  enough  from 
Mrs.  Holt's  way  o'  lookin'  at  things,  but  slave-drivin'  is  done 
away  with  now.  '  How  can  there  be  a  lot  o'  work  in  a  house 
where  there  are  only  two  people?'  says  she  to  me  just  now. 
'  Right  enough,  ma'am,'  say  I, '  but  I've  seen  people  have  rooms 
turned  out  for  tlie  sake  of  seein'  other  people  at  work,  an'  I 
^az'<rknowed  missises  as  would  rather  have  furniture  an'  carpets 
wore  out  with  on-necessary  cleanin',   than  give  a  servant   an 

191 


X9>  Bnnfe  Dcane 

hour  or  two's  rest.'  Come  on,  now,  out  o'  this,  an  get 
to  bed." 

Mrs.  Green  lifted  Annie  out  of  her  chair,  half-carried  her 
upstairs,  and  saw  her  into  bed.  With  one  great  sigh  of 
thankfulness,  the  girl  was  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Green  and  Sister 
Ruth  were  standing  beside  her  bed.     Said  the  latter  : 

"  Mrs.  Green  came  to  us  last  night  and  told  us  you  were  ill. 
I  have  come  to  see  if  it  is  possible  to  take  you  back  with  me 
for  a  rest." 

Annie  feebly  protested  that  she  had  had  a  rest,  that  she  was 
very  grateful,  but  would  stay  and  do  her  work.  At  which  Mrs. 
Green  said  "  Rubbish  !  "  and  Sister  Ruth  said  "  Impossible  !  " 
the  result  being  that  Sister  Ruth  and  Annie  departed  from 
Merryon  Square  in  a  cab. 

The  girl  thought  it  a  trifle  unkind  of  Mrs.  Holt  to  let  her  go 
without  seeing  her,  but  when  she  remembered  the  old  lady's 
passionate  affection  for  her  niece,  she  concluded  that  she 
(Annie)  had  given  mortal  offence  by  daring  to  speak  her  mind 
to  that  exalted  lady. 

"She'll  never  forgive  me,"  the  girl  said  later  on  to  Sister 
Elizabeth,  "  an'  I  don't  know  however  I  come  to  speak  so  to  a 
lady,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to  help  myself." 

Sister  Elizabeth  was  very  gentle. 

"  Never  mind  Mrs.  Holt,"  she  said ;  "  you  have  proved  to 
us  that  you  desire  to  do  what  is  right.  We  can  find  you  a 
place  when  you  are  ready  to  take  one.  Five  years'  character 
will  take  you  anywhere." 

All  the  Sisters'  prejudice  against  Annie  had  long  since  given 
place  to  respect  for  her  straightforwardness,  her  integrity,  and 
her  self-denying  devotion  to  her  boy.  They  knew  no  more  of 
her  than  they  had  done  at  first,  but  even  her  reticence  gave 
her  an  additional  claim  upon  their  respect,  seeing  that  reticence 
among  women  who  have  made  "  the  "  mistake  is  a  quality 
extremely  rare.  So  it  happened  that  Annie's  second  stay  at 
the  Home  was  a  pleasant  one,  affording  her  just  the  restful 
change  she  needed.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  she  wash  er- 
self  again,  and  asked  for  permission  to  return  to  work. 

"  I'm  not  earnin'  anythink,"  she  said,  "  an'  the  boy's  got  to 
be  paid  for.  Please  may  I  send  for  my  things  from  the 
Square  ?  " 

The  messenger  who  went  for  the  "  things  "  returned  without 
them,  and  the  same  day  a  lady,  who  looked  very  sheepish,  and 
who  could  not  meet  Sister  Elizabeth's  eyes,  called  at  the  Home 


**Z\)c  Best  IDoice  ot  tbe  Xot"  193 

to  know  what  Emma  meant  by  sending  for  her  things.  Of 
course,  she  was  coming  back.  Had  not  everyone  understood 
it  ?  Dear,  dear,  how  very  distressing  and  extraordinary !  Oh, 
please  let  her  see  Emma  herself?  Emma  would  say  at  once 
that  it  had  been  an  understood  thing. 

Sister  Elizabeth  was  quiet,  but  decided. 

"  I  cannot  advise  the  girl  to  return  to  you,  Mrs.  Holt,"  she 
said.  "She  was  brought  here  a  fortnight  ago  completely 
prostrated  by  hard  work  and  long  hours.  You  have  had  a 
willing  and  a  conscientious  servant.  You  have  taken  advantage 
of  her  misforture  to  deny  her  those  privileges  of  freedom  and 
leisure  which  are  the  common  right  of  all,  and  which  the 
ordinary  girl  would  have  taken  to  herself.  To  such  an 
ordinary  girl  I  believe  you  would  be  an  excellent  mistress ;  to 
the  girl  who  has  not  the  courage  to  defend  herself,  I  fear  you 
are  very  hard." 

The  little  old  lady  was  indignant,  was  outraged,  was  scandal- 
ised !  Was  not  Merryon  Square  a  home  ?  Was  it  not  a 
Christian  home?  Were  not  the  duties  hght?  Was  not  she 
herself  the  most  lenient,  the  most  ridiculously  easy-going 
mistress  alive  ?  And  if  she  were  ever  anything  else,  was  it  any- 
body's fault  but  that  of  her  husband,  who  was  so  firm  in  the 
matter  of  governing  servants  ?    And  so  very  particular ! 

As  to  that  night  on  which  she  was  accused  of  something  like 
brutality  to  a  sick  girl — did  she  even  know  she  was  sick  ?  Had 
anyone  told  her?  Had  the  girl  herself  complained?  How 
could  one  be  expected  to  know  a  girl  was  ill  if  she  never  said 
anything  about  it?  And  how  could  she — Mrs.  Holt — know 
that  Emma  lay  on  the  kitchen  floor  in  a  faint  for  nearly  two 
hours,  when  she  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  dear 
niece,  Mrs.  Kemble,  who  was  so  pardonably  upset,  and  who 
was,  always  had  been,  and  always  musf  be,  such  a  perfect 
lady? 

Sister  Elizabeth  sat  unmoved,  but  presently  said  she  would 
speak  to  the  girl.     She  did  so. 

"  The  Holts  want  you  back.  I  am  not  advising  you  to  go ; 
but  if  you  do  go,  I  have  made  the  terms  upon  which  you  will  do 
so." 

"  I  means  to  go,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  at  once,  "  an'  I'll  tell 
you  why.  I  was  silly  to  go  on  doin'  what  I  did,  grumblin'  to 
myself,  but  not  speakin'  out.  I  did  think  she  ought  to  have 
knowed  I  wus  doin'  too  much ;  but  when  I  found  she  didn't 
know,  I  ought  to  have  spoke,  an'  there'd  bin  an  end  to  it.  I 
shall  know  betler  now.     There's  always  somethink  to  be  put 

M 


194  Bnnie  S)eane 

up  with  in  every  place,  an*  these  people  knows  all  about  me, 
I'll  go  back,  thank  you,  ma'am." 

She  went  back,  much  to  the  delight  of  the  old  gentleman, 
who,  however,  had  the  discretion  to  conceal  such  delight  under 
a  mask  of  stolid  indifference. 

Of  all  the  privileges  which  her  return  to  Merryon  Square 
brought  her,  Annie  valued  one  the  most  highly ;  she  was 
permitted  to  have  her  boy  with  her  from  the  Saturday  after- 
noons to  the  Sunday  evenings.  Those  Saturday  afternoons 
became  the  very  joy  of  her  existence.  To  meet  the  'bus  which 
brought  the  child,  to  take  his  little  warm  hand  in  hers,  and 
wander  with  him  through  one  of  the  parks,  to  hear  his  happy 
chatter,  to  watch  his  happy  face  with  its  odd,  fleeting  flashes  of 
likeness  to  a  face  she  had  known  in  the  time  that  was  no  more, 
to  take  him  home  and  sit  him  up  in  the  kitchen  while  she 
finished  her  work,  to  feed  him  somewhat  injudiciously  with  the 
dainty  bits  of  her  own  fare  carefully  stored  for  him  in  a  biscuit 
tin,  to  fall  asleep  at  night  with  his  head  on  her  arm,  to  wake 
before  he  did  and  lie  and  watch  him,  to  put  on  his  clean 
collar  and  take  him  into  the  dining-room  to  say  "Good  morning" 
to  the  old  people — all  these  simple  things  made  her  content  to 
work  hard  for  the  rest  of  the  week,  and  shed  upon  her  selfless 
life  all  the  sunshine  that  it  had. 

Gradually,  by  imperceptible  growth  of  custom,  Lin  grew  to 
regard  the  dining-room  with  less  of  awe  and  more  of  criticism ; 
grew  to  look  upon  one  particular  chair  as  his,  and  to  think  it 
no  great  privilege  to  have  his  tea  with  the  old  people. 

Annie  would  try  to  keep  him  downstairs,  fearing  to  be  thought 
presumptuous,  but  the  child  was  a  happy,  unobtrusive  little 
creature,  and  if  he  did  not  trot  upstairs,  the  old  gentleman  was 
sure  to  ring  for  him.  Occasionally,  it  is  true,  the  old  lady 
lectured  upon  the  inadvisability  of  lifting  the  boy  out  of  his 
proper  sphere ;  but  her  lecture  fell  upon  stony  ground,  and  Lin 
regarded  the  dining-room  as  a  fair  field,  to  which  he  was 
admitted  without  favour. 

This  state  of  things  kept  Annie  in  perpetual  apprehension. 
She  knew  that  as  the  boy  grew  to  look  upon  his  privileges  as 
a  right,  Mrs.  Holt  would  resent  it,  and  would  make  herself 
uncomfortable  and  unpleasant. 

This  apprehension  was  not  justified  until  Lin  was  getting  on 
towards  his  ninth  birthday.  He  came  from  school  in  the  'bus 
as  usual,  and  running  up  the  square,  sprang  up  the  steps,  and 
finding  the  dining-room  door  ajar,  went  right  in.  Now  it 
happened  that  Mrs.  Holt  had  a  visitor,  and  that  Lin  forgot  to 


**TLbc  Beat  IDolcc  of  tbc  Xot"  195 

wipe  his  boots.  The  boy  stood  with  his  cap  in  hand  for  a  few 
seconds,  checked  by  the  colour  of  Mrs.  Holt's  face  and  the 
expression  of  her  closed  mouth,  then  he  said  awkwardly : 

"  Shall  I  go  downstairs,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  responded  she  with  asperity ;  •'  and  another 
time,  please  remember  to  come  in  by  the  area-gate.  Tell 
Emma  to  bring  a  dustpan  and  brush  here  at  once.  Your 
boots  are  muddy." 

Lin  flushed  scarlet  and  went  downstairs. 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  anyone  there,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,  "and  Mrs.  Holt  was  cross." 

Annie  departed  with  the  dustpan  and  brush.  As  she  reached 
the  dining-room  she  heard  Mrs.  Holt  say  something  about  "  old 
servants,"  and  the  difficulty  there  was  in  checking  their 
tendency  to  presumption. 

"  I've  bin  expectin'  this,  dear,"  she  said  to  Lin,  when  she 
went  down  again,  "an'  you  shouldn't  ha'  gone  into  the  dinin' 
room  like  that.  I'm  not  sorry,  because  it's  time  as  you  knew 
that  you're  not  parlour  comp'ny,  an'  mustn't  expect  to  go  there 
onless  you're  sent  for." 

"  I  don't  mind  about  going  there,"  said  Lin,  with  his  eyes 
brimming  over,  "  but  they've  always  told  me  to  go ;  and  why 
should  they  tell  me  if  they  don't  want  me  ?  Mr.  Holt  wasn't 
there.  She  wouldn't  have  spoken  to  me  like  that  if  he  had 
been." 

Mr.  Holt  came  in  shortly  after,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Tea,  please,  Emma,"  said  the  old  lady ;  and,  "  Where's 
the  boy,  Emma  ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Down  with  me,  sir." 

•' Send  him  up,  send  him  up;  and  where's  that  division  sum? 
My  word,  what  I'll  say  to  him  if  he  hasn't  done  that  division 
sum." 

Annie  went  down  and  told  Lin  to  go  up.  But  he  was 
still  smarting,  and  said  he  didn't  "want  to  go  up,  thank 
you." 

**  Nonsense,  dear,  you  mustn't  show  temper.  We  are  not 
supposed  to  do  that,  Lin;  it  isn't  our  place.  I've  had  to 
pocket  a  deal  like  that,  Lin,  an'  so  must  you.  Go  up,  my  boy, 
please." 

Lin  was  obedient,  and  went,  but  did  not  sit  down,  and  when 
asked  to  do  so,  said  : 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I'll  have  tea  with  mother." 

*'  Eh,  why,  what's  this  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Holt,  "  why — why — why 
—I  can't  understand.     Have  tea  with  your  mother  when  there 


19^  Bnnie  2)eane 

are  muffins  about  ?  Hot  muffins  with  plenty  of  butter  ?  Why, 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing,  sir,"  said  Lin,  turning  red;  "but  mother's  all 
alone,  and  1  think  I  ought  to  go  and  keep  her  company." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  the  old  lady  hastily,  "  and  it  is  very  good 
of  him.  Emma  can  keep  one  muffin  back  for  him.  Don't 
interfere  with  him,  Mr.  Holt ;  it  is  only  right  that  he  should 
prefer  to  go  down  with  Emma." 

"  But  it's  funny,  all  the  same,  my  love,  because  he  usually 
prefers  to  stay  with  us.  Well,  well,  you  rascal,  run  along,  then, 
and  come  up  when  you  have  had  your  tea.  I  must  have  it 
out  with  you  about  the  division  sum." 

When  Lin  had  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Holt  began. 

"  You  really  must  stop  making  this  fuss  about  that  boy.  I 
have  been  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  speak,  and  now  I 
have  found  it.  You  have  lifted  the  boy  out  of  his  place,  and 
presently  we  shall  find  it  difficult  to  make  him  understand  what 
that  place  really  is.  In  fact,  I  had  occasion  to  give  him  a  lesson 
to-day." 

The  old  gentleman  was  like  Lin,  he  did  not  understand ;  he 
showed  it. 

"  The  boy  is  growing  up.  When  he  was  a  baby,  it  was  all 
very  well,  but  now  it  is  getting  tiresome,  and  it  is  time  he 
understood  that  for  him  to  be  here  is  a  favour;  but  that  for 
him  to  come  rushing  in  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  him  is  a 
liberty,  and  a  liberty,"  finished  the  little  lady  firmly,  "  which 
must  be  checked." 

"  But,  my  love,  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  ?  Why,  we 
have  known  him  from  a  baby,  and  he  is  such  a  nice,  well- 
mannered  little  chap.  I  thought  you  liked  to  have  him  here ; 
upon  my  word,  I  thought  you  did." 

"  That  does  not  say  that  I  want  him  rushing  in  here  whether 
I  am  alone  or  not,  whether  he  is  welcome  or  not  If  we  do 
want  him  we  can  always  ring." 

"  But  I  have  never  known  him  *  rush  in.'  " 

"  He  rushed  in  to-day,  in  at  the  front  door,  and,  without 
knocking  or  anything,  came  right  across  this  carpet  with  his 
boots  all  mud.  Mrs.  Sherman — Mrs.  John  Sherman— hap- 
pened to  be  here,  and  she  asked  me  if  the  boy  were  a  visitor 
of  mine." 

"  Well,  he  was,  my  love,  wasn't  he  ? "  laughed  Mr.  Holt 
nervously. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Mr.  Holt.  Of  course,  I  had  to  explain 
things,  and  Mrs.  Sherman  was  so  sarcastic  I     You  know  what 


"XCbe  Best  IDofce  ot  tbe  Xot"  197 

she  can  be.  'Such  a  novel  idea,'  she  said,  *to  have  the  chil. 
dren  of  one's  unmarried  servants  invading  one's  reception 
rooms.'  Of  course,  it  was  unpleasant,  but  I  must  say  that  she 
pointed  something  out  to  me  which  I  had  not  thought  of  before. 
*  Depend  upon  it,'  she  said,  '  the  woman  is  bringing  up  that 
boy  with  false  ideas,  and  all  on  account  of  you  allowing  him 
the  run  of  the  house.  She  has  her  eyes  open.  She  thinks  if 
you  live  long  enough  you  will  do  something  in  the  matter  of 
placing  him  out,  or,  if  you  don't,  that  you  will  leave  him  some- 
thing in  your  will.  That's  ^er  move!*  You  know  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  always  rather  vulgar." 

"  Very  vulgar,"  said  Mr.  Holt  angrily,  "  much  /oo  vulgar,  my 
dear,  for  her  opinions  to  have  any  value." 

"  But  there  was  sense  in  what  she  said.  If  we  are  raising 
any  hopes  of  that  sort  in  Emma's  mind,  it  is  our  duty  to  crush 
them  at  once.  That  boy  is  nothing  whatever  to  us,  and  I 
should  not  dream  of  doing  anything  for  him.  How  could  we 
when  we  have  Georgie  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  little  man  slowly,  "/am 
without  kith  or  kin,  and  your  niece,  my  dear,  has  no  claim 
upon  me.  I  think  I  have  said  that  if  Emma  remains  with  us 
I  shall  not  forget  her  good  services.  You  may  remember,  Mrs. 
Holt,  that  I  have  said  that." 

Mrs.  Holt  dropped  her  knitting  and  turned  faint.  It  is  true 
that  she  did  in  a  general  way  rule  her  husband,  who,  by  the 
way,  was  her  junior  by  five  years ;  but  she  had  never  been 
able  to  guide  his  hand  in  the  framing  of  certain  directions 
concerning  the  final  distribution  of  his  property,  neither  had 
she  seen  those  directions.  Mr.  Holt  had  them  in  safe  custody, 
and  when  approached  on  the  subject  was  exasperatingly  un- 
communicative. This  worried  his  wife  to  the  verge  of  despair, 
and  still  the  little  man,  though  he  knew  it,  made  no  sign.  It 
was  the  last  vestige  of  authority  that  remained  to  him,  and  he 
held  on  to  it  firmly. 

"  Of  course,  I  have  heard  you  say  something  of  the  kind," 
Mrs.  Holt  said,  in  great  agitation,  "but  I  am  certain  you 
would  not  dream  of  leaving  Emma  much.  She  is  well  paid — I 
think  over-paid,  and  yet  sometimes  I  fear  that  if  anything 
happened  to  me  you  would  be  cajoled  into  doing  something 
unjust." 

"  Unjust,  my  love  ?  How  could  it  be  that,  when  we  have 
no  children  of  our  own  ?  " 

"  It  could,  it  could,  and  you  know  how.  We  have  brought 
Georgie  up,  and  you  know  my  wishes,  my  intentions  with 


iqs  Bnnie  S)eane 

regard  to  her.     If  you  ignore  these,  Mr.  Holt,  it  will  prove 
very  plainly  that  you  care  nothing  about  w^." 

"  1  care  very  much  about  you,  but  Georgie  is  a  different 
matter.  We  took  her  from  a  poor  home,  and  lavished  upon 
her  both  money  and  affection.  Perhaps  you  have  had  some 
return  for  it,  my  dear ;  but  /  have  had  none — none  whatever. 
Miss  Georgie  made  her  bed  in  her  own  wilful  way,  and  I  think 
she  finds  it  uncomfortably  hard.  A  matrimonial  bed  usually 
is  when  it  is  made  without  affection.  She  will  have  your 
money,  and  she  will  have  some  of  mine,  but  not  all.  If  you 
have  encouraged  her  to  look  forward  to  my  death  you  have 
done  wrong.  So  you  were  a  bit  sharp  with  the  boy 
to-day?" 

"I  was  sharp;  and  let  me  say  at  once,  Mr.  Holt,  that  I 
will  not  have  that  boy  encouraged  to  take  liberties  in  this 
house.  No,  not  if  I  have  to  tell  Emma  that  in  future  he  had 
better  spend  his  Sundays  at  school." 

•'  I  object  to  that,"  commenced  the  old  gentleman  firmly ; 
but  he  said  no  more,  for  Annie  entered  with  the  tray.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  and  her  lips  indrawn.  Mrs.  Holt  saw  directly 
that  the  girl  had  overheard  part  of  the  conversation  between 
Mr.  Holt  and  herself.  The  old  lady's  heart  sank.  Oh,  dear ! 
oh,  dear  !  Now  Emma  would  go,  and  all  her  troubles  would 
begin  afresh. 

But  Emma  was  not  so  upstart,  and  knew  her  "  place  "  far 
too  well  to  resent  Lin's  snub.  She  let  the  matter  pass  without 
comment,  until  she  and  the  boy  were  waiting  for  the  'bus 
which  was  to  take  him  back  to  school.     Then  she  said  : 

"  I  think,  dear,  that  p'r'aps  it'll  be  as  well  if  you  don't  look 
to  come  now  ev'ry  Saturday.     Will  you  be  disappointed  ?  " 

"  It'll  be  a  bit  dull  at  school,"  said  Lin,  in  his  old-fashioned 
way,  "  but  I  shan't  mind  when  I  think  of  what  Mrs.  Holt  said 
to  me.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  want  to  come  next  Saturday,  but 
the  old  gentleman  said  I  was  to." 

"  Then  you'd  better.  On'y,  dear,  I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  bear 
in  mind  that  I'm  on'y  a  servant  here,  an'  that  you're  my  little 
boy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holt  is  my  master  an'  mistress,  an'  we're 
nothink  to  them  at  all.  I've  bin  goin'  to  tell  you  that,  becos' 
I  knew  she'd  soon  begin  to  think  it  wus  time  to  tell  you  that 
you  wus  makin'  too  free." 

"  I  reinember  she  did  tell  me  a  little  while  ago  that  I  must 
make  the  most  of  things,"  said  Lin ;  "  and  when  I  asked  her 
why,  she  said  that  as  I  got  older  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  come 
so  much.    The  old  gentleman  laughed  and  patted  me  on  the 


**  Ubc  J5e6t  IDotce  of  tbe  Xot "  199 

back.  I  always  liked  him,"  finished  Lin  candidly,  "much 
better  than  her." 

"Well,  we  must  break  off  your  comin'  a  little  at  a  time. 
There's  a  lot  o'  disappointments  for  poor  people  like  us,  Lin ; 
but  they're  all  for  our  good,  an'  they  don't  hurt  much  as  long 
as  we  try  to  do  our  best.  Here's  your  'bus.  Mind  what  I 
says,  be  a  good  boy,  an'  learn  all  you  can  while  you've  got  the 
chance." 

Lin  kissed  her  and  sprang  into  the  'bus,  nodding  at  the 
patient  figure  on  the  kerb-stone  until  he  could  see  it  no 
longer. 

All  that  week  was  Mrs.  Holt  specially  gracious,  even  fussy, 
and  she  mentioned  Lin  more  than  once  in  quite  a  motherly 
way.  But  Annie  was  more  than  usually  quiet,  and  the  thought 
of  the  coming  Saturday  was  sad,  instead  of  pleasant.  On  the 
Friday  evening,  however,  she  had  a  surprise,  in  the  shape  of  a 
letter  from  the  boy. 

"  My  dear  Mother, — I  am  writing  to  tell  you  something  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear.  Mr.  Hoskins,  our  choir- 
master, has  asked  if  I  can  stay  here  for  Sundays.  You  know 
V  e  have  got  a  little  chapel  in  the  house,  because  you  have  seen 
it.  Three  of  the  boys  that  used  to  sing  in  the  choir  have  gone 
to  Canada  (if  it  was  not  for  you  1  should  like  to  go,  too)  and 
some  of  the  others'  voices  are  breaking.  Your  voice  does 
break  when  you  are  old  enough.  So  Mr.  Hoskins  tried  a  lot 
of  us  to  see  if  we  could  sing ;  then  he  picked  out  me  and  two 
or  three  more,  and  tried  us  again.  He  says  I  have  got  the 
best  voice  of  the  lot,  and  he's  going  to  teach  me.  So  1  said  I 
would  stop  Sundays  if  you  dident  mind.  This  will  come  in 
nicely  about  Mrs.  Holt,  won't  it  ?  I  shall  not  be  at  all  dull 
now,  because  I  just  do  like  singing,  and  I  can  go  up  ever  so 
high,  like  that  boy  that  sings  in  the  anthem  at  St.  Saviour's. 
So  good-bye  for  this  week.  Come  down  to  church  some 
Sundays.     Our  friends  are  allowed  to  come. 

"  I  remain,  your  very  loving  son,  Lin. 

"  I  know  I  have  spelt  this  quite  right,  because  I  have  wrote 
it  with  a  dictionary,  all  except  dident,  and  that  I  could  not 
find.  I  am  glad  about  the  old  lady.  Won't  she  be  surprised. 
I  am  sorry  about  the  old  gentleman,  though,  because  I  think 
now  I  don't  come  he  will  be  rather  dull." 

Annie  smiled  as  she  folded  the  letter. 


200  Snnie  Deane 

"  God's  way  out  of  my  little  trouble,"  said  she.  "  I  can  work 
with  a  light  heart  now." 

But  the  touch  of  human  nature  in  her  caused  her  to  keep 
silence  until  the  boy  was  asked  for. 

Saturday's  tea-time  came,  and  Mr.  Holt  rang  the  bell. 

"  Where's  the  boy,  Emma  ?  "  as  the  tray  appeared. 

"  Not  comin'  to-day,  sir,  thank  you,"  said  Annie  briskly. 

*•  What  ?    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothink,  sir.  They  wants  him  to  stay  Sundays  now,  to 
sing  in  the  choir,  so  o'  course  I  must  be  glad  as  he's  o'  some 
use.  It's  bin  very  kind  o'  you,  sir,  an'  you,  too,  ma'am,  to 
have  him  here  so  often ;  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  both." 

Mrs.  Holt  turned  slowly  red,  and  her  little  silver  oats 
rattled. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  Emma,"  she  said  stiffly.  The  old 
man  said  nothing. 

But  when  tea  was  over,  the  old  lady  was  so  full  of  indignation 
that  she  trotted  off  to  the  kitchen  to  speak  her  mind.  If  she 
chose  to  regulate  the  boy's  visits,  well  and  good ;  for  Emma  to 
do  so  was  "  upstart." 

**  I  don't  understand  this,  Emma,"  she  said,  "  I  mean  the 
boy's  sudden  stopping  at  school.  I  feel  sure  there  is  some- 
thing behind,  some  unbecoming  spirit  of  resentment.  It  is 
true  that  I  was  annoyed  with  him  for  rushing  into  the  dining- 
room  in  that  rude  way  when  I  was  receiving  a  visitor.  I  spoke 
firmly  to  him,  but  it  was  for  his  good,  and  if  you  could  not  see 
that  I  think  you  are  very  silly.  You  will  find  it  a  mistake  to 
encourage  the  boy  in  being  upstart.  That  will  neither  become 
your  position  nor  give  him  the  true  idea  of  his." 

"  I'm  not  doin'  that,  ma'am.  I've  had  no  hand  at  all  in  his 
stoppin'  at  school.  But  now,  as  it's  settled  he  is  to  stop,  I'm 
glad,  because  I  think  he  might  have  got  to  look  on  comin'  here 
as  a  right,  an'  I  couldn't  have  helped  myself.  I've  tried  that 
hard  to  keep  him  in  his  place,  you  can't  think ;  but  you  wus  so 
kind  to  him,  an'  childern  don't  see  the  rights  o'  things.  You 
can't  expect  it." 

"Well,  it  seems  strange  that  he  should  be  wanted  so 
suddenly,  and  that  you  should  say  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  didn't  know  myself,  ma'am,  'till  last  night.  But  I'm  glad 
it's  happened.  I've  bin  tryin'  to  think  how  to  tell  the  boy, 
becos'  I  knowed  you'd  soon  think  'twas  time.  Now  it's 
settled  all  outside  of  us." 

"  Well,  now,  really,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  "  I  must  say  I  think 
you  have  some  odd  notions  of  privileges.    For  all  our  really 


**Ubc  Best  iDofce  ot  tbe  Xot"  201 

remarkable  kindness  to  your  boy,  what  do  we  get  ?  Gratitude  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it !  Simply  resentment  when  we  think  him  old 
enough  to  be  taught  that  he  has  no  real  claim  upon  our 
consideration.  What  has  been  really  a  great  favour  you  have 
distorted  into  something  like  a  right.  Well,  well,  that  is  the 
sort  of  thing  I  have  experienced  all  my  life  !  " 

"  I'm  not  ungrateful,  ma'am,"  said  Annie,  "  far  from  that" 

"  But  do  you  suppose  that  child  would  have  had  the  run  of 
any  house  but  this?  Of  course  not.  It  has  been  a  great 
concession  on  our  part.  It  is  true  that  /might  still  be  inclined 
to  let  things  stay  over  a  bit,  but  Mr.  Holt  has  noticed  the 
tendency  to  take  things  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  I  have  told 
you  how  very  sharp  he  is  upon  anyone  who  takes  a  liberty. 
You  may  not  believe  me,  but  he  is — 7>ery  sharp." 

"  I'm  quite  satisfied,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  quietly,  "  an'  very 
grateful  for  all  the  happy  Sundays  you've  give  me  an'  the  boy.' 

The  old  lady  rambled  on  anent  "  privileges,"  and  finally  went 
upstairs,  still  gently  insinuating  that  but  for  Mr.  Holt's  intense 
dislike  of  anyone  taking  liberties,  Lin  might  have  spent  his 
Sundays  in  Merryon  Square  for  ever.  But  the  next  morning, 
when  Mrs.  Holt  was  dressing  for  church,  her  husband  crept 
cautiously  down  to  the  kitchen. 

"Emma,"  cried  he,  in  a  flurried  whisper,  "Emma,  I  must 
tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  that  Mrs.  Holt  upset  the  boy.  I 
happened  to  be  out,  or  it  would  not  have  happened.  It  was 
done  more  to  please  that  old  hag  of  a  Sherman  woman  than 
anything.  She's  a  female  terror,  Emma,  a — a — horse-marine 
woman — dreadful !  I  am  tremendously  sorry  !  Don't  mention 
to  Mrs.  Holt  that  I  said  anything,  but  I  shan't  lose  sight  of 
the  boy,  Emma.  He's  a  jolly  young  shaver,  and  I'm  very  fond 
of  him." 

Whereupon  the  little  old  man  crept  upstairs,  and  arriving  in 
the  hall,  had  a  sham  fit  of  coughing  to  let  Mrs.  Holt  know  his 
whereabouts. 

So  Lin  ceased  to  spend  his  "  week-ends  "  in  Merryon  Square, 
and  thus  was  established  a  new  state  of  aifairs  which  lasted  foi 
more  than  two  years. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

LIN   STARTS   LIFE  ON   HIS   OWN   ACCOUNT 

One  afternoon  in  late  autumn  Annie  was  summoned  from  the 
consideration  of  Mr.  Holt's  new  shirts  by  the  sharp  ringing  of 
the  front  door  bell.  She  ran  upstairs  and  opened  the  door  to 
Mr.  Netherwood. 

"  Please  come  in,  sir.     Mrs.  Holt  is  in,"  said  she. 

"  I  will  see  Mrs.  Holt,  certainly,"  he  said,  smiling  at  Annie's 
brilliant  colour,  "but  I  came  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

Annie  ushered  him  in,  and  then  resumed  her  work  until  the 
drawing-room  bell  re-summoned  her. 

Mr.  Netherwood  had  not  disclosed  his  reason  for  wishing  to 
see  Annie,  and  Mrs.  Holt  was  very  anxious  ;  but  of  course  she 
withdrew,  and — left  the  door  open. 

Mr.  Netherwood  promptly  rose  and  shut  it. 

"  I  came  to  see  you  about  the  boy,"  he  said  at  once.  "  I 
have  waited  for  a  fitting  opportunity,  and  now  I  think  I  have 
found  it." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  what  you  are  going  to  do  with 
him?" 

"Why,  no,  sir — anyhow,  not  yet  awhile.  He's  not  old 
enough." 

"You  think  not?  Well,  granting  that  he  is  young,  you 
cannot  afford  to  go  on  paying  for  his  education  ?  " 

"  I  can,  sir,"  she  said  timidly. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  and  I  think  now  it  is  time  it  ceased." 

•'  What,  his  edjucation,  sir  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Oh  /  sir,"  she  said,  in  piteous  surprise,  "  he's  only  leven 
an'  a  half." 

"There  are  many  lads  of  eleven  and  a  half  profitably 
employed  in  trying  to  maintain  themselves.  I  am  afraid  you 
will  be  disappointed,  and  I  do  not  expect  you  to  agree  with 
me ;  but  I  must  speak  plainly,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  trust  to 
my  judgment  in  the  matter  rather  than  your  own.     First  of  all, 

302 


%in  Starts  %itc  on  IbiB  ®wn  Bccount    203 

are  you  earning  enough  to  have  anything  left  for  yourself  when 
you  have  paid  for  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  At  first  I  had  to  take  out  of  the  bank  to  do  it, 
then  it  got  about  level,  an'  now  these  last  two  years  I'm  savin' 
agen.  I  don't  want  but  a  very  little  myself,  sir,  an'  oh,  I  do 
want  Lin  to  be  well  edjucated ! " 

*'  I  know  you  do.  It  is  always  our  way  to  set  too  high  a 
value  on  a  thing  which  we  ourselves  do  not  possess.  Believe 
me,  you  think  more  of  education  than  it  is  actually  worth  ;  that 
is,  than  it  is  worth  to  the  great  majority  of  people,  your  boy 
with  the  rest.  I  have  seen  many  lads  do  better  without 
education  than  they  would  have  done  with ;  and  in  my  opinion 
Lin  is  one  of  the  boys  who  will  do  better — without.  He  has 
quite  as  much  of  the  knowledge  that  is  to  be  gained  from  books 
as  he  will  require,  for  I  want  to  tell  you — in  all  possible  kind- 
ness— that  he  is  not,  and  that  he  never  will  be,  what  is  called 
•clever.'" 

Annie's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  He's  no  age,"  she  faltered ;  "  you  can  scarce  tell,  sir." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  can.  If  he  were  clever,  I  should  advise  you 
differently.  He  is  bright  and  sharp  enough ;  he  is  splendidly 
conscientious  and  safe ;  but  in  studies  of  the  solid  kind,  such  as 
arithmetic  and  so  on,  he  is  simply  nowhere." 

*'  I  never  could  do  sums  myself,"  Annie  said  sadly. 

"  Well,  you  see,  that  has  not  stood  in  your  way,  and  it  will 
not  stand  in  Lin's.  We  watch  our  boys  very  carefully,  and  try 
to  develop  any  talent  they  may  have.  But  Lin  has  no  '  bent,' 
no  fancy  for  any  kind  of  trade,  no  hobby  at  all.  This  cripples 
us.  With  lads  like  this  the  only  thing  we  can  do  is  to  watch 
for  a  suitable  opening  and  place  them  out." 

♦«  How,  sir  ?  " 

"  In  superior  business-houses  as  assistants,  messengers, 
errand-boys." 

Annie  looked  hurt 

**  I  wouldn't  like  Lin  to  be  that,  sir.  I  wouldn't  think  it  was 
good  enough." 

"  That  is  a  mistake.  Every  kind  of  honest  work  is  good 
enough  for  an  honest  lad.  If  there  is  the  right  stuff  in  him,  he 
will  be  content  to  begin  at  the  bottom  and  to  work  him-  c  If  up. 
Many  a  fine  lad  has  been  spoiled  by  the  false  pride  of  a 
'  coddling '  mother,  or  the  equally  false  pride  of  a  father,  who 
desires  to  give  his  son  a  soft  berth  where  he  himself  has  had  a 
hard  one.  A  soft  berth  makes  a  lad's  muscles  flabby,  and 
flabby   muscles   make  a  flabby   mind.      There   is  much  of 


204  Bnnfe  Deane 

nobility  in  your  desire  to  work  for  the  boy  that  he  may  be 
idle  ;  but  there  is  much,  too,  that  is  harmful.  In  any  case,  Lin 
could  only  remain  with  us  for  another  year  and  a  half.  When 
he  leaves  he  must  do  something ;  can  you  tell  us  what  ?  " 

*'  I  had  thought  of  sendin'  him  to  a  good  school  fr 
or  two,  an'  then  tryin'  to  get  him  into  some — some  office,"  said 
Annie,  feeling  that  her  ideas  were  lamentably  hazy. 

"  You  could  not  afford  it,  and  you  would  be  making  a  great 
mistake.  Give  Lin  two  years'  more  'schooling,'  and  I  will 
engage  to  say  that  he  will  be  up  to  the  ears  in  subjects  which 
will  be  of  no  use  to  him,  while  all  idea  of  his  responsibility 
towards  you  will  be  lost  in  a  false  idea  of  his  own  value.  No  f 
Take  your  boy  now,  let  him  feel  his  own  feet  and  learn  to 
stand  upon  them,  let  him  know  what  it  is  to  earn  the  boots  he 
wears  upon  thera — that  is  the  kind  of  schooling  which  will 
make  him  of  some  use  to  you  and  himself.  He  has  one 
talent — a  talent  for  music,  but  we  could  not  cultivate  that 
seriously ;  it  would  mean  much  outlay  and  doubtful  return. 
Our  organist,  Mr.  Hoskins,  is  very  fond  of  him,  and  helps  him 
to  pick  up  a  bit  of  musical  knowledge  as  he  can.  That  may 
one  day  be  some  pleasure  to  him,  and  can  do  him  no  harm. 
He  is  a  gentle  lad,  almost  too  affectionate  and  sensitive  for  a 
boy.  Extra  education  will  not  help  him  there  ;  he  wants  his 
sensitiveness  what  is  roughly  called  '  knocked  out  of  him.'  Do 
you  think  I  am  cruel  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  sure  you  couldn't  be  that.  Have  you  got 
any  place  for  Lin  in  your  mind,  sir  ?  " 

"I  have.  That  is  what  brought  me  here.  There  is  a 
music  shop  close  to  us,  the  proprietor  of  which  is  well  known 
to  me.  He  has  little  to  do  with  the  shop  himself.  It  is 
managed  by  Mr.  Hoskins.  They  want  a  boy  for  errands,  and 
we  think  Lin  is  the  boy  for  the  place." 

She  was  disappointed,  humiliated,  and,  truth  to  tell, 
indignant.  She  was  so  proud  of  her  slender,  refined-looking 
lad,  and  had  dwelt  upon  a  future  for  him  so  different  to  this. 
Even  her  veneration  for  Mr.  Netherwood  turned  to  something 
like  resentment  He  had  understood  her  so  well,  yet  here  he 
was  urging  her  to  send  Lin  out  as  an  errand-boy.  With  great 
difficulty  she  restrained  her  tears. 

Mr.  Netherwood  heartily  disliked  his  task.  He  had 
anticipated  this  pained  resistance,  but  he  felt  it  necessary  to 
save  the  lad  from  being  spoiled. 

"Your  idea  of  your  duty  to  Lin  is  to  be  a  perpetual 
umbrella  to  him,"  he  said,   with  a  cheery  laugh,  "and  you 


%in  Starts  %itc  on  ibts  ®wn  Bccount    205 

are  all  wrong.  Don't  shelter  him,  teach  him  to  trust 
to  God  and  to  himself,  as  for  the  last  eleven  years  you 
have  done.  He  is  not  a  tender  plant,  to  be  reared  in  a 
hot-house ;  he  is  a  boy,  with  the  making  of  a  man  in  him,  and 
a  good  man,  too,  if  he  is  not  ruined  by  over-much  devotion." 

"  But  an  errand-hoy  • "  she  said  piteously ;  "  at  work  early 
and  late,  an'  out  in  all  weathers  !  " 

"Roui^h  weather  will  be  good  for  him.  Well-clad,  well- 
shod,  and  well-fed,  a  healthy  lad  can  snap  his  fingers  at  the 
weather." 

"  An'  there's  the  other  boys,  sir.  I  wouldn't  like  Lin  to  be 
like  the  butcher's  an'  baker's  an'  veg'table  boys  as  comes 
round  here." 

*'  He  will  be  differently  situated.  In  the  first  place,  he  will 
not  be  wanted  until  half-past  eight  in  the  morning.  It  will  be 
his  business  to  sweep  out  the  shop,  to  clean  the  windows,  to 
dust  the  pianos  and  other  instruments,  to  deliver  all  music 
which  has  to  be  sent  home,  and  to  stay  in  the  shop  while  Mr. 
Hoskins  goes  to  dinner  and  to  tea.  He  himself  will  have  an 
hour  for  each  of  these  meals,  and  the  shop  closes  every 
evening  at  seven.  I  think  you  will  allow  that  there  is  little 
hardship  in  such  a  situation  as  that." 

"  But  where  will  he  sleep  and  board,  sir  ?  " 

"  With  safe  people  of  our  own  selection.  They  already  have 
two  or  three  of  our  lads  who  are  engaged  during  the  day.  You 
will  have  to  pay  the  same  as  you  are  now  paying  for  the  boy  ; 
but  he  will  be  earning  4s.  a  week,  which  will  be  some  help  to 
you." 

"  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  it,  sir,"  she  said.  "  It  have 
come  to  me  like  a  shock.  He's  such  a  little  bit  of  a  thing  to 
be  earnin'  his  own  livin'." 

"  But  you  will  let  him  try  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  must,  sir.  But  if  he  finds  it  too  hard,  I  shan't  let 
him  stop." 

"  He  won't  find  it  hard,"  Mr.  Netherwood  said  cheerfully ; 
»  he  will  like  it." 

Mr.  Netherwood  was  right.  Lin  did  like  it,  and  had  not 
been  at  work  for  a  month  before  he  began  to  feel  as  if  he  were 
getting  on  in  the  world  at  a  truly  astonishing  pace. 

It  is  true  that  the  sweeping  out  of  the  shop  was  more 
difficult  than  he  had  imagined  it  could  be.  The  broom-handle 
was  much  too  long,  and  there  was  no  compromise  about  it 
somehow;  but  it  grew  manageable  after  a  while,  and  Lin  was 
one  of  those  lads  who,  when  he  once  saw  his  way,  went  right 


2o6  Bnnte  Beane 

on  with  a  will,  and  never  looked  behind  him.  Lin's  chief 
failing  was  his  reluctance  to  strike  out  on  an  untried  path. 
Fear  of  failure  kept  him  back. 

But  the  great  source  of  his  pleasure  in  his  new  life  was  his 
association  with  things  musical.  The  smattering  of  music 
which  his  chorister's  duties  had  bestowed  upon  him  had 
coloured  all  his  tastes  and  inclinations.  He  picked  up  notes 
more  easily  than  he  had  ever  done  figures.  By  aid  of  a 
singularly  accurate  ear  he  picked  up  tunes  he  heard,  and  w  ith 
fingers  long  and  flexible  he  managed  to  play  them  in  a 
singularly  accurate  manner.  At  first  he  did  this  on  a 
convenient  piano  during  Mr.  Hoskins's  dinner-hour;  but  Mr. 
Hoskins,  instead  of  repressing,  encouraged  him. 

"  Deane,"  said  he,  "  if  you  had  been  born  in  different 
circumstances  you'd  have  made  a  good  all-round  musician.  As 
it  is,  if  you  can  get  the  chance  of  a  little  practice,  you  will  do 
better  than  I  am  doing.  You  have  more  talent  than  I  have, 
and  a  quicker  ear.  The  Professor  said  when  he  was  in  again 
he'd  try  your  voice  ;  and  if  he  thinks  it  good  enough,  he'll  take 
you  into  his  choir.     I  hope  you  will  happen  to  be  in." 

It  happened  that  Lin  was  in. 

"  Hallo ! "  said  the  Professor  briskly,  "  so  you  are  my  new 
hand,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  With  a  message  for  Mr.  Hoskins,  sir." 

"  Well,  come  here  first,  and  let  me  see  if  you  have  lost  that 
voice  Hoskins  talks  about." 

Lin  followed  his  employer  to  the  back  of  the  shop,  tried  to 
use  his  voice,  could  not  find  it  for  some  time,  but  at  last  fished 
it  up  from  vasty  depths  in  a  very  infirm  condition. 

Mr.  Staniforth  laughed. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  /know.  Your  heart  is  in  your  throat, 
isn't  it  ?     I'm  not  in  a  hurry.     Take  your  time  and  try  again." 

Thus  encouraged,  Lin  tried  until  his  voice  came  back,  tried 
after  it  had  come  back,  and  then  the  Professor  became 
attentive. 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  nervous,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  You 
might  earn  a  little  for  the  next  year  or  two  if  you  could  get 
over  that.     It's  of  no  use  if  you  couldn't." 

Lin  felt  snubbed,  and  when  the  Professor  left  Mr.  Hoskins 
said: 

"  Look  here,  Deane,  put  your  nerves  out,  and  the  governor 
will  give  you  a  surplice  in  his  choir.    He  won't  take  any  further 


Xin  Starts  Xite  on  Ibis  ©wn  Hccount    207 

trouble  about  you,  because  he's  busy,  and  there  are  plenty  of 
boys  with  voices  and  without  nerves.  I  shall  send  somebody 
up  to  the  school  to  do  duty  for  me  on  Sunday,  and  I'll  take  you 
to  his  church." 

Mr.  Hoskins  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Lin  and  he  went 
early,  invaded  the  vestry,  found  two  extra  surplices,  and 
augmented  the  choir  by  two  voices. 

Now,  Lin  had  a  charming  face,  and  a  surplice  has  an 
etherealising  effect  on  the  appearance  of  the  "human  boy." 
The  Professor  made  a  note  of  that  boy,  and  told  him  good- 
humouredly  to  turn  up  on  Wednesday  night  for  practice. 

Lin  obediently  "  turned  up." 

Also  intent  upon  conquering  his  nerves,  he  turned  up 
regularly  afterwards,  was  at  first  taken  little  notice  of,  then 
gradually  accepted  without  formal  acknowledgment  as  a 
regular ;  and  at  last — oh,  happy  Lin — was  paid  half-a-crown  a 
week,  and  looked  upon  as  good  enough  for  solo  purposes. 

It  is  true  that  on  his  first  appearance  as  a  soloist  his  heart 
played  him  tricks,  and  beat  everywhere  but  in  the  right  place ; 
true  that  when  he  saw  a  sea  of  faces  turn  suddenly  in 
his  direction  he  wished  it  were  a  veritable  sea,  and  would 
come  up  and  drown  him.  But  the  waves  receded,  as  it  were, 
leaving  him  high  and  dry,  ready  to  do  better  on  the  next 
occasion. 

"  Was  it  very  bad  ?  "  he  asked  Mr.  Hoskins  piteously  when 
they  got  out. 

"  No  ;  it  was  just  mechanical.  Pure  and  true,  but  without 
any  feehng.     You'll  come  right  in  a  week  or  two." 

And  Lin  came  right,  so  far  right  that  the  Professor  grew 
proud  of  him ;  so  did  the  congregation ;  so  did  Mr,  Hoskins. 
In  short,  Lin  tasted  the  sweets  of  popularity,  and  found  them 
much  to  his  liking.  He  grew  accustomed  to  the  smiles  of 
recognition  with  which  he  was  greeted  by  the  young  ladies  of 
the  congregation  ;  he  accepted  them  most  frankly,  and  returned 
them  too,  so  brimming  over  was  he  with  kindliness  and  happy 
content.  He  was  such  a  "  love  of  a  boy,"  said  the  girls  among 
themselves,  and  so  *'  superior"  ! 

Mr.  Hoskins  conceived  quite  an  affection  for  him,  often 
taking  him  about  with  him  after  the  shop  was  closed,  as  well 
as  on  Sundays. 

A  mild  and  harmless  young  man  was  Mr.  Hoskins,  who 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  who  wore  tinted  spectacles,  and 
who  had  drifted  into  membership  of  the  local  Philharmonic 
Society,  into  a  mild  course  of  oratorio,  concert-going,  piano 


2o8  Hnnie  S>eane 

and  organ  playing,  just  as  naturally  as  your  fast  young  man 
drifts  into  horse-racing  and  patronage  of  variety  theatres. 

Mr  Hoskins  took  Lin  home  to  Camberwell,  where  on 
Sundays  they  had  an  early  tea  to  admit  of  their  getting  back  to 
their  respective  services,  where  Lin  was  always  kindly  received 
by  Mr.  Hoskins's  mother  and  sister,  where  he  was  waited  upon 
by  a  neat  maid  in  a  snowy  cap  and  apron  (who  reminded  him 
of  his  mother,  and  made  him  feel  like  a  sneak),  where  he  ate 
home-made  cake  and  jam  galore,  and  did  thoroughly  enjoy 
himself. 

Sometimes  he  met  Mr.  Hoskins  after  service  and  returned 
with  him  to  Camberwell  to  supper ;  then  they  usually  found  the 
rooms  with  the  folding  doors  filled  with  young  people  all  cut 
out  on  the  Hoskins  pattern — young  people  who  were  devotedly 
musical ;  who  knew  the  "  Messiah  "  and  the  "  Elijah "  by 
heart ;  who  seemed  to  be  living  on  the  recollection  of  the  last 
great  oratorical  performance,  or  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
attending  the  next ;  who  were  great  upon  Santley  and  Edward 
Lloyd,  upon  Lemmens  Sherrington  and  Madame  Patti,  who 
discussed  the  "  chorus "  in  technical  terms,  describing  the 
"attack"  as  having  been  firm  or  wavering  as  the  case  might 
be,  and  set  Lin  wondering  whether  choral  societies  were  given 
to  fighting. 

On  these  nights  he  usually  slept  at  Camberwell.  Then,  in 
Mr.  Hoskins's  den  upstairs,  he  would  reverently  study  a  big 
album  filled  with  musical  celebrities  past  and  present,  or  a 
scrap-book  filled  with  reminiscences  of  such  celebrities,  for  at 
the  shrine  of  musical  fame  was  Mr.  Hoskins  always  figuratively 
prostrate.  Small  wonder  is  it  if  Lin  soon  became  prostrate 
too,  and  thought  that  to  be  able  to  take  the  solos  in  the 
"Messiah"  was  to  be  seated  on  the  apex  of  human  ambition, 
and  to  wield  the  baton  of  a  choral  society's  conductor  was  to 
reach  the  summit  of  human  responsibility  and  importance. 

Lin  was  not  an  obtrusive  boy.  If  asked  to  sing  he  would 
do  so  at  once,  simply  and  unaffectedly,  often  smiling  at  the 
extravagant  applause,  but  oddly  undated  by  it,  which  said  not 
a  little  for  his  level-headed  common  sense.  In  truth,  it  was 
his  mother's  teaching  which  here  came  to  his  aid. 

"You  must  remember  this  won't  last,"  she  said  to  him,  when 
he  told  her  of  his  successes  ;  "  don't  forget  that,  there's  a  dear, 
or  when  your  voice  goes  you'll  be  lost." 

The  boy  did  not  forget 

"  Some  other  fellow  will  come  along  and  take  my  place," 
thought  he,    "as  I  took  Ted  VVilmot's.     He   hates  me!     I 


Xin  Starts  Xife  on  Ibis  ®wn  Bccount    209 

wonder  if  I  shall  hate  the  other  fellow.  It  wouldn't  be  fair, 
because  I  shall  have  had  my  turn." 

During  that  winter  he  sang  at  "  Readings  "  and  at  Institutes, 
also  at  private  soirees,  at  first  gratuitously,  then  for  a  modest 
but  very  acceptable  fee ;  and  still  he  was  not  spoiled,  only 
became  brighter,  more  intelligent — opening  out,  as  it  were,  to 
new  and  sunnier  influences. 

His  intense  gratitude  to  Mr.  Hoskins  was  a  little  unusual  in 
a  boy  of  his  age,  when  boys  are  not  as  a  rule  openly  grateful ; 
and  the  relations  between  him  and  the  people  at  Camberwcll 
were  cordial  in  the  extreme. 

On  the  occasion  of  one  of  his  visits,  Mrs.  Hoskins  bethought 
herself  to  ask  him  a  few  questions,  commencing  with  what  was 
to  Lin  a  "poser." 

"  Who  was  your  father,  my  dear  ?  "  she  asked  briskly. 

The  boy  looked  up,  pondered  the  question  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  said  frankly,  with  a  smile : 

"  I  think,  ma'am,  I  never  had  a  father.  If  I  had,  I'm  sure 
mother  would  have  told  me.'' 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  Hoskins  hurriedly.     "  I — I — see." 

Which  remark  struck  Lin  as  peculiar,  because  there  was 
nothing  to  see.  He  here  made  a  mental  note.  At  the  very 
first  opportunity  he  would  hand  on  that  query  to  his  mother. 
He  did  so.     She,  much  startled,  said : 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  that  for  ?  " 

"Nothing  particular,  only  Mrs.  Hoskins  asked  me,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say." 

"  It  didn't  matter  to  her,"  said  Annie  quietly.  "  People 
should  mind  their  own  business." 

"It  wasn't  much  to  ask,"  said  Lin  warmly;  "and  I'm  sure 
she  didn't  mean  to  be  inquisitive." 

"  She  knows  you  come  from  the  Home  Schools." 

"  Yes,  but  the  boys  are  not  all  orphans  there.  Some  of  th^  ir 
fathers  are  dead ;  but  there  were  a  good  few  whose  fathtrs  had 
left  their  mothers  to  do  the  best  they  could,  and  there  were 
some  who  had  fathers  in  prison." 

Quite  off  her  guard,  Annie  burst  out : 

"Your  father  was  not  like  that.  Don't  ever  get  that  in 
your  head.      Your  father  was  a  gentleman." 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  Then  I  had  a  father  ?  "  said  he.     "  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

She  caught  herself  up — too  late. 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  she  said.  "  Some  day  when  you're 
older  I'll  tell  you." 


3X0  Ennie  Beane 

The  boy  pocketed  his  curiosity  and  said  no  more.  Nor  did 
the  matter  weigh  heavily  upon  him.  He  thought  it  over  a  bit, 
then  came  to  a  sensible  and  practical  conclusion. 

"  Whoever  he  was,  he  couldn't  have  been  up  to  much ;  and 
for  all  the  help  he's  been  to  us,  we  might  just  as  well  not  have 
had  him  at  all." 

Lin  wiped  his  shadowy  father  off  the  tablets  of  his  memory 
as  a  thing  of  no  account,  and  enjoyed  life  in  his  own  way. 

The  very  shop  in  which  his  time  was  spent  was  dear  to  him. 
He  loved  the  avenues  of  pianos  and  organs,  the  rows  of  violins 
and  other  stringed  instruments,  the  busts  of  famous  composers, 
even  the  hoUand-covered  piles  of  music  on  the  shelves.  The 
shop  was  a  happy  land  to  him.  There  were  many  hours  in 
which  he  stood  about  with  no  delivering  to  do;  then  he 
arranged  the  songs  and  pieces  alphabetically,  wrote  neat 
catalogues  of  odd  sheet  music,  and  kept  the  spick-and-span 
new  instruments  quite  free  of  dust.  Also  he  fraternised  with 
the  tuners,  and  quickly  understood  the  ins  and  outs  of  tuning 
as  well  as  they.  He  managed  to  get  "  scrappy  "  practices,  too, 
and  proved  himself  to  be  an  adept  at  sight-reading.  In  short, 
he  picked  up  stray  crumbs  of  musical  knowledge  as  naturally 
as  a  newly-hatched  chicken  picks  up  its  own  living,  and,  in  his 
eagerness  to  get  on,  was  ever  aided  by  Mr.  Hoskins. 

**  Make  the  most  of  your  time,  Lin,"  his  friend  would  say 
quietly.  '*  In  a  year  or  two  you  will  be  up  to  trying  over  for 
people,  and  you  will  drift  into  a  berth  like  mine.  It  isn't 
brilliant,  perhaps,  but  it's  very  pleasant  for  a  quiet  fellow  who 
is  musical." 

Lin  made  the  most  of  his  time,  made  fair  progress,  too,  and 
was  supremely  well  satisfied  with  the  world  as  he  found  it. 

But  his  mother  was  growing  restless,  and  when  she  saw  how 
wrapped  he  was  in  his  business,  and  how  indifferent  to  every- 
thing else,  from  being  restless  she  became  first  irritable,  then 
impatient,  then  actually  jealous 

"  Oh,  dearie,  do  talk  about  somethink  else,"  she  said  once, 
when  Lin's  tongue  had  been  running  on  for  an  hour  in  the  old 
groove ;  "  your  head's  stuffed  full  of  nothink  but  this  music  an' 
singin'.  I  gets  tired  of  it.  It  do  seem  to  me  such  a  silly  thing 
to  make  so  much  of." 

The  boy  turned  scarlet. 

"  I  don't  see  how  a  thing  can  be  silly  when  it  gets  one's 
living,"  he  said ;  "  the  money  hasn't  been  silly,  anyway.  It's  kept 
me,  mother." 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear ;  but  it  isn't  like  a  thing  what  can  last,  is  it  ?  ** 


Xfn  Starts  Xtte  on  Die  ®wn  account    an 

"  My  voice  won't  last,  I  know,  but  my  music  will." 

"  No,  dear ;  where's  the  use  o'  talkin'  like  that?  It's  all  very 
well  for  a  pastime  for  them  as  can  afford  it,  but  you  couldn't 
depend  on  it  to  keep  you." 

"Yes,  I  could,  and  1  mean  to,"  said  Lin  stoutly.  "I  mean 
to  try  for  a  situation  like  Mr.  Hoskins's,  and  he  says  I'm  pretty 
certain  to  get  it.  Then  if  I  keep  on  and  stick  to  it,  I  can  help 
myself  by  being  one  of  the  organist's  deputies,  and  by  taking 
pupils  like  Hoskins  does.  Of  course,  I'm  only  a  boy  now,  but  a 
music-shop  is  what  I'm  cut  out  for,  and  the  Professor  has  as  good 
as  said  he'll  give  me  one  of  the  branch  shops  by  and  by.  He 
says  himself  I'm  very  sharp  at  music,  and  that  half  the  people 
who  learn  regularly  don't  get  on  like  I  do." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  she  said,  "for  them  as  have  plenty 
besides.  As  to  you  being  in  a  shop  all  your  life,  no,  Lin,  that 
won't  do.  I  couldn't  think  o'  that.  If  only  you'd  get  some 
good  learnin'  books  an'  try  to  edjucate  yourself  as  hard  as  you 
tries  to  learn  to  play  the  pianna,  now,  there'd  be  some  sense 
in  it ,  but  it  do  seem  to  me  that  to  waste  so  much  time  on  that 
is  worse  than  silly — it's  wrong." 

To  Annie  it  did  seem  so. 

Even  when  she  suddenly  remembered  that  he  was  a 
"celebrated  singer,"  who  assuredly  earned  his  living  by  his 
singing,  all  the  significance  of  the  thought  was  done  away  with 
by  another.  Was  he  not  also  a  gentleman,  with  time  and 
means  (Annie  could  not  understand  that  a  man  may  be  a 
gentleman  without  means)  to  cultivate  what  she  only  thought 
of  as  a  "  pastime,"  a  mere  thing  of  leisure,  a  thing  which  might 
not  be  pursued  by  common  people  without  incurring  for  them 
the  danger  of  being  thought  presumptuous  ? 

Annie  set  her  face  against  this  exasperating  music,  and  was 
so  anxious  to  impress  upon  Lin  that  he  could  not  be  allowed 
to  earn  his  living  thereby,  that  in  her  valour  she  forgot 
discretion,  and  somewhat  alienated  the  boy  by  discussing  the 
subject  in  season  and  out.  He  listened  in  silence,  trusting  to 
the  future  and  to  his  own  efforts  to  bring  her  round  rather  than 
to  present  rebellion.  Still,  her  obstinate  refusal  to  understand 
him  damped  him,  and  took  something  away  from  the  happiness 
of  his  life. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  she  would  have  permitted  him  to 
remain  at  the  music  shop  as  long  as  she  did,  but  for  one  of 
those  little  events  which  sometimes  compel  us  to  identify 
ourselves  with  a  cause  in  which  our  hearts  are  not 


•19  Bnnte  Beane 

One  morning  when  she  was  busy,  Mr,  Holt  went  down  to 
her  with  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  Something  of  interest  to  you  here,  Emma,"  he  said.  "  The 
shop  where  the  boy  is  was  broken  into  last  night,  and  what 
money  there  was  upon  the  premises,  besides  some  valuable 
musical  instruments,  stolen.  I  daresay  you  will  hear  something 
about  it  during  the  day." 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  cried  Annie,  turning  faint,  '*  I  do  hope  they 
won't  think  that  my  boy  had  anything  to  do  with  it." 

They  did  not  think  anything  so  absurd,  but  there  was  a 
good  bit  of  talk  about  the  burglary,  and  Mr.  Hoskins  waxed 
eloquent. 

"  If  only  the  governor  had  listened  to  me,"  he  said  to  Lin, 
*'  this  could  never  have  happened.  I  have  said  dozens  of  times 
that  it  was  unsafe  to  leave  these  premises  unprotected  at  night. 
Somebody  ought  to  sleep  here." 

"Well,  Hoskins,"  said  the  Professor,  entering  at  the 
moment,  "so  your  prophecy  has  been  fulfilled  at  last.  We 
have  had  a  burglary,  and  you  can  have  the  pleasure  of  saying, 
•  I  told  you  so.'     I  will  sit  down  and  give  you  the  chance," 

"I  won't  avail  myself  of  your  generosity,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Hoskins ;  "  but  I  will  say  there  ought  to  be  some  one  here  at 
night." 

"  I  suppose  there  will  have  to  be  some  one.  The  thing  is — 
where  to  find  the  *  some  one.'  You  couldn't  stay  here  without 
somebody  else  to  look  after  you,  and  Deane  would  not  care 
to  find  himself  in  the  place  alone,  would  you,  Deane  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Lin,  without  hesitation. 

" Now,  Hoskins,  have  you  any  ideas  upon  the  subject?  " 

**Well,  sir,  I  think  you  might  furnish  two  or  three  of  the 
upper  rooms,  and  pay  a  sort  of  caretaker,  I'm  sure  a  practice 
room  here  would  pay,  and  the  caretaker,  or  housekeeper,  or 
whatever  you  called  her,  would  be  here  early  and  late,  just  at 
such  hours  as  people  engaged  during  the  day  would  want  to 
practise." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  the  Professor ;  "  but  what  woman 
would  care  to  sleep  on  the  premises  alone  ?  " 

"I'm  coming  to  that,  sir.  I  would  not  mind  furnishing  my 
own  bedroom  here,  and  surely  the  ^lousekeeper  could  look 
after  me  ?  " 

"  That  is  worth  thinking  over.  Deane  could  sleep  here,  too. 
But  where  could  we  find  a  decent  woman?  I'm  afraid, 
Hoskins,  the  domestic  servant  is  a  trial  to  which  you  are 
unaccustomed." 


%in  Starts  %\tc  on  Ibts  Own  account    213 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  here  broke  in  Lin,  in  high  excitement, 
"  there's  my  mother !  " 

•'  Where  ?  "  said  the  Professor,  suddenly  craning  his  neck  in 
the  direction  of  the  street. 

"  At  Merryon  Square,  sir — I  didn't  mean  here — but  I  beh'eve 
she'd  come,  and  she'd  do  just  what  you  want,  sir  ;  I'm  sure  she 
would.  And  if  you  want  to  know  anything  about  her,  sir,  you 
could  go  to  Mr.  Netherwood.     He'll  tell  you." 

The  Professor  went  to  Mr.  Netherwooc^  and  that  gentleman 
went  to  Merryon  Square.  The  idea  of  the  "housekeeper" 
seemed  such  a  good  one  that  he  felt  himself  justified  in 
recommending  it  to  Annie's  consideration.  She  thought  of  the 
change  it  would  be  for  her ;  she  thought  of  the  pleasure  of 
living  under  the  same  roof  with  Lin.  Beyond  fAaf  thought 
she  could  not  get ;  it  drew  her  away  from  Merryon  Square  with 
a  power  not  to  be  resisted.  Terrible  was  the  outcry  at  No.  19, 
but  Annie  was  not  to  be  shaken  in  her  determination  to  leave. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  she  was  established  in  the  rooms  over 
the  music  shop,  was  cooking  for  Mr.  Hoskins  and  Lin,  and 
taking  care  of  their  slender  wardrobes  ;  was  surreptitiously  doing 
Lin's  work  in  the  mornings  before  the  shop  was  open,  and  was 
far,  far  happier  than  she  ever  had  been  or  had  ever  expected 
to  be. 

For  at  last  she  and  the  boy  had  a  home  where  they  could  bf 
together. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BACK  AGAIN  AT    NO.    ig 

Those  days  in  the  rooms  over  the  music  shop  were  the 
happisst  days  of  Annie  Deane's  life. 

She  was  virtually  her  own  mistress  ;  she  enjoyed  the  hitherto 
unknown  luxury  of  a  little  time  she  could  call  her  own ;  she 
lived  above  the  area-level;  she  was  unharassed  by  petty 
tyranny ;  and  above  all,  she  had  the  boy  with  her.  She  did  not 
"  save  "  nearly  as  much  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  do  for 
the  past  two  or  three  years,  but  Lin's  singing  fees  were  now 
considerable,  and  when  his  mother  saw  how  he  improved 
under  her  care  she  felt  she  could  not  regret  her  stationary 
banking  account.  To  say  that  Lin  himself  was  happy  would 
not  convey  any  idea  of  his  absolute  joyous  content.  To  think 
that  his  mother  was  no  longer  under  the  pressure  of  Mrs. 
Holt's  metaphorical  thumb,  to  think  that  she  was  not  compelled 
to  wear  a  cap,  or  to  get  up  at  six,  or  to  wait  until  nine  for  a 
cup  of  tea  ,  to  know  that  she  had  plenty  of  fresh  air,  and  that 
she  looked  much  younger  and  brighter  in  consequence,  and 
that  all  this  was  due  to  a  happy  thought  of  his — why,  was  not 
this  enough  to  make  any  boy  happy  ?  Of  course,  it  was ;  and 
in  the  matter  of  selfishness,  Lin  was  unlike  other  boys.  Mr. 
Netherwood's  prophecy  concerning  him  had  been  verified. 
Early  independence  had  strengthened  him  without  abating  one 
whit  his  natural  gentleness ;  working  honestly  himself,  he  could 
appreciate  honest  work  in  others,  and  he  did  earnestly 
appreciate  it  in  his  mother. 

When  his  time  was  his  own  he  did  not  care  to  appropriate 
it.  Work  over  for  the  day,  he  would  spring  upstairs  to  know 
if  his  mother  were  going  out  or  to  help  her  with  the  supper. 
After  supper  he  would  sit  down  to  the  piano  they  were  allowed 
to  have  in  the  room,  and  would  try,  with  Mr.  Hoskins's  aid, 
to  interest  her  in  his  progress. 

Now  Annie's  power  of  obstinate  resistance  was  great,  and 
she  never  encouraged  the  boy ;  but  neither  could  she  find  the 
heart  wherewith  to  actively  oppose  him,  and  time  and  custom 

214 


3Bacft  Haafn  at  mo,  to  215 

will  blunt  all  but  the  most  determined  opposition.  Mr. 
Hoskins's  quiet  reminder  that  music  indoors  was  better  than 
questionable  company  out,  had  its  effect  upon  her.  She  let 
things  drift — for  the  present. 

So  the  three  sat  together  in  the  dark  evenings,  and  Annie 
learned  something  of  the  lives  and  peculiarities  of  the  famous 
in  the  world  of  music ;  also,  in  looking  through  Mr.  Hoskins's 
album  she  came  upon  a  portrait  that  she  knew. 

"That  is  Mr.  Le  Quesne,"  the  owner  of  the  album  said 
enthusiastically.  "  I  heard  him  sing  once  in  the  Albert  Hall, 
and  am  living  in  hope  of  some  day  hearing  him  again." 

"I've  heard  his  name  before,"  Annie  said,  with  calmness. 
"  Mrs.  Kemble  used  to  talk  about  him,  about  the  time  as  he 
was  married." 

"  He  is  not  married." 

Her  hands  went  hard  together  under  cover  of  the  table;  her 
voice  maintained  its  even  tone. 

"  Isn't  he  ?     She  said  he  wus." 

"No.  He  was  to  have  married  Mdlle.  Le  Breton. 
Everything  was  fixed  and  settled,  when  suddenly  the  matter 
dropped.     Why,  nobody  knew." 

"  They  did,  I  s'pose,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  at  the 
portrait,  which  was  of  more  recent  date  than  her  own. 

"  I  expect  they  did.  There  was  a  lot  of  gossip  about  it,  but 
I  never  heard  anything  definite.  They  are  both  singing  still, 
but  they  never  sing  together ;  and  I  have  been  told  by  people 
who  ought  to  know  that  neither  of  them  would  accept  an 
engagement  which  would  bring  them  together." 

She  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  said  no  more  concerning 
Mr.  Le  Quesne. 

So  he  was  still  unmarried  !  Thank  Heaven,  she  had  not  to 
remember  that  his  happiness  had  been  wrecked  by  any  act 
of  hers. 

She  heard  his  name  often  after  that,  knew  where  he  was, 
even  heard  Lin  talk  of  him,  and  smiled  to  herself  as  she  I'^oked 
at  the  boy  and  thought  of  all  that  name  he  uttered  so  glibly 
meant  to  him  and  to  her.  But  she  held  her  tongue,  nor  did 
Lin  ever  revert  to  that  awkward  question  once  asked  him  by 
Mrs.  Hoskins. 

Thus  two  years  flew  happily  by — so  happily  that  even 
Annie  Deane  turned  away  like  a  coward  from  the  thought  of 
the  change  that  must  come  presently. 

It  came  in  due  time  to  Lin  and  his  mother. 

First  of  all,  the  boy's  perfect  voice  showed  signs  of  breaking, 


2i6  anufe  JDcmc 

then  very  gradually  left  him.  This  took  the  gilt  off  things  for 
Lin,  both  socially  and  pecuniarily.  But  he  told  himself  he  had 
known  all  along  that  his  voice  was  not  a  permanent  possession, 
and  that  he  must  face  its  loss  pluckily.  The  Professor,  who 
heartily  liked  the  lad,  gave  him  a  rise,  spoke  a  few  words  of 
encouragement,  and  told  him  to  hold  on  steadily  in  the  hope 
of  better  times  to  come. 

When  the  sharp  edge  of  the  first  trouble  had  worn  off 
somewhat,  there  came  along  another — Mr.  Hoskins  fell  in  love. 

Not  mildly,  inoffensively,  modestly,  as  he  did  most  things, 
but  violently,  melodramatically,  hopelessly. 

The  lady  was  plump  and  pleasant,  wore  spectacles,  sang 
soprano  in  the  Choral  Society's  chorus,  played  Handel  on  the 
organ,  and  Mendelssohn  on  the  piano,  taught  music  on  her 
own  account,  had  written  a  song,  and  lived  to  hear  somebody 
sing  it,  and,  according  to  Mr.  Hoskins,  was  generally  "gifted." 

"  That's  what  she  is,  Deane,"  he  would  say  confidentially  to 
Lin,  "  she  is  gifted.  That  is  the  only  word  which  seems  to 
convey  the  correct  impression  of  her — she  is  gifted  ! " 

She  certainly  was  gifted — with  the  power  of  transforming 
Mr.  Hoskins  from  a  mild-mannered,  unobtrusive  young  man 
into  an  inconsequent,  dreamy  nonentity.  But  for  Lin,  some- 
thing in  the  business  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  Mr.  Hoskins 
was  lost  to  all  the  realities  except  the  reality  of  closing  time. 
His  breakfast  didn't  matter,  his  dinner  was  a  farce,  his  tea  got 
cold  while  he  sat  and  stirred  it,  thinking  all  the  time  of  "  her," 
his  supper  was  a  necessary  evil,  the  inclination  to  which  he 
would  fain  have  crushed  because  it  interfered  with  his  recol- 
lection of  his  divinity's  giftedness.  Supper  was  material,  and 
clashed.  Sleep  was  unnecessary  waste  of  time,  so  Mr.  Hoskins 
sat  up  and  wasted  gas  instead,  while  he  wrote  whole  sheetfuls 
of  his  own  Impressions  of  Love,  and  its  Effect  upon  the  Human 
Soul.  Which  impressions  he  read  to  Lin,  thereby  half-killing 
the  boy,  who  would  lie  with  his  mischievous  young  face  buried 
in  a  pillow,  and  his  irreverent  young  body  shaking  with  laughter. 

"  Deane,"  said  the  Professor  one  day  to  him  privately,  "  what 
are  you  doing  with  Hoskins  ?     Is  he  bewitched  ?  " 

"  That's  about  it,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  But  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Ah,  tha*^  I  don't  know,  sir,  if  it's  going  to  /aj/." 

"  It  is  lasting.  It  has  been  on  these  three  or  four  months, 
and  I  am  getting  anxious." 

'*  So  am  I,  sir ;  and  do  you  know  that  I  sometimes  think  it 
will  last  until  he's — married ! " 


3Bacft  aaatn  at  "Wo.  19  217 

Now  Lin  said  this  seriously,  but  the  Professor  shouted  with 
laughter. 

"  Deane,"  said  he,  "  you  know  more  than  you  think  you  do. 
Most  lads  of  your  age  know  less.  I'm  afraid  you  are  right. 
Hoskins  will  have  to  marry  while  he  has  any  sense  left.  It's 
a  bad  case,  Deane ;  I  never  saw  a  worse." 

The  Professor  was  a  kindly  soul,  who  took  a  great  interest  in 
all  his  people.  He  spoke  to  Mr.  Hoskins,  and  found  him  not 
only  willing  but  anxious.  His  gifted  fiancee  was  not  unwilling 
either,  but  here  things  came  to  a  standstill.  The  material  side 
of  life  now  demanded  a  hearing.  What  about  a  house,  and  the 
rent  thereof,  and  the  furniture,  and  the  bread  and  cheese  and 
things,  and  the  washing  ? 

"  But  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hoskins  eagerly,  "  that 
besides  being  a  gifted  girl  she  is  domesticated.  And  if  it  were 
not  for  our  excellent  housekeeper,  Deane's  mother,  I  should 
say,  '  Why  not  let  us  live  here  ? '  We  could  take  care  of  the 
premises,  and  it  would  be  less  expensive  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Professor  hurriedly ;  "  but  I  couldn't 
sack  Deane's  mother.     I  really  couldn't  do  that." 

"  Exactly,  sir ;  that  is  just  what  I  said.  If  it  were  not  for  her 
we  could  have  lived  here." 

The  Professor  was  not  able  to  see  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty, 
and  the  matter  dropped.  But  as  time  went  on,  Annie  began 
to  see  how  matters  were,  and  to  understand  that  it  was  she  who 
stood  in  Mr.  Hoskins's  way. 

"  We're  done  here,"  she  thought  to  herself.     "  It  have  bin 

Kleasant,  an'  I've  had  a  good  long  rest,  but  it's  over.     I  shall 
ave  to  get  another  place,  an'  Lin  must  get  into  somethink 
better." 

She  did  not  lose  time.  She  resolved  to  go  to  the  Home 
that  day  and  announce  herself  as  being  at  liberty.  But  she 
never  went,  for  as  she  opened  the  side  door  to  depart  she  came 
face  to  face  with  a  telegraph  boy  bearing  a  message  to  her  from 
Merryon  Square,  where  her  immediate  presence  was  earnestly 
desired. 

She  went  at  once,  just  in  time  to  see  the  little  old  lady  alive, 
and  to  promise  her  that  she  would  stay  and  take  care  of  the 
poor,  grief-stricken  little  old  man. 

In  less  than  a  month  she  was  back  in  Merryon  Square,  and 
Mr.  Hoskins  had  ceased  to  write  down  his  "  Impressions  of 
Love  on  the  Human  Soul,"  or  to  sit  up  half  the  night  for  the 
purpose.  There  was  no  necessity,  for  Mrs.  Hoskins,  though 
gifted,  was  a  practical  soul,  and  would  have  objected. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ANNIE  HAS  HER  OWN  WAY 

Annie  was  back  again  in  Merryon  Square,  but  upon  a  very 
different  footing  to  the  old  one.  Now  she  was  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  her  own  mistress,  was  spoken  of  by  the  old  gentle- 
man as  "  My  housekeeper,"  had  her  assistant  in  the  kitchen, 
and  herself  presided  at  the  dining-room  table. 

Thus  she  left  the  old  cays  of  general  service  behind  her  for 
ever,  and  was  glad  of  it,  not  so  much  for  her  own  sake  as  for 
the  sake  of  the  boy. 

Lin  was  happy  as  ever.  He  lived  with  the  Hoskins  just  as 
he  had  lived  with  his  mother,  and  was  as  great  a  favourite  of 
Mrs.  Hoskins  as  he  was  of  her  husband's.  He  was  never  in 
the  way  of  the  young  couple,  because  after  closing  time  he 
invariably  found  his  way  to  Merryon  Square,  where  he  was 
always  sure  of  two  very  desirable  things — a  hearty  welcome  and 
a  good  supper.  He  had  two  homes  now,  he  would  say  happily, 
and  though  his  actual  wages  were  small,  why,  *'  money  was  not 
everything,"  and  there  were  many  privileges  which  money  could 
not  buy. 

But  Lin's  content  was  not  shared  by  his  mother,  who  was 
grievously  dissatisfied,  and  never  ceased  to  agitate  for  a  different 
sort  of  Ufe  for  the  lad.  She  found  a  warm  supporter  in  the 
old  man,  who,  being  rid  of  the  fear  of  his  wife,  and  having 
no  kin  of  his  own,  resolved  to  help  Lin  on  in  the  world. 

"  Be  patient,"  he  would  say  to  Annie  cheerily;  "  I  have  set 
the  proper  machinery  in  motion,  and  we  shall  hear  of  something 
presently." 

It  happened  that  Lin  himself  heard  of  this  "  something  " 
on  his  sixteenth  birthday,  which  he  spent  by  invitation  in 
Merryon  Square,  and  remembered  bitterly  to  the  end  of  his 
life:  Tea  was  cleared  away,  and  Annie's  work-basket  was  on 
the  table,  when  Mr.  Holt,  with  a  beaming  face  and  many  a 
gentle  pat  on  Lin's  shoulder,  told  the  lad  that  his  life  at  Brixton 
must  shortly  end ;  that  after  some  difficulty,  and  by  means  of 

3X8 


annfe  bas  ber  own  Ma^  219 

the  payment  of  a  fifty-pound  premium,  he  would  presently  find 
himself  in  the  office  of  a  big  city  firm. 

The  boy  dropped  back  against  the  wall  in  sheer  surprise. 

"  JV^af,  sir  ?  "  he  said,  turning  pale.  "  Why,  the  '  Firm ' 
have  not  seen  me,  and — and — I  have  never  been  consulted  in 
the  matter  at  all." 

"  Ah,  that  is  all  right  enough.  I  shall  take  you  up  myself 
next  week,  and  this  berth  has  been  keeping  warm  for  you  these 
two  years.  I  promised  your  mother  all  along  that  I  would  not 
forget  you,  and  I  have  not  forgotten.  You  will  get  no  salary 
for  the  first  year,  that  is  not  to  be  expected  ;  but  after  that  you 
will  start  at  fifty  pounds  a  year — not  by  any  means  bad  that 
for  a  lad  of  seventeen,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  daresay ;  but  who's  to  find  the  fifty  pounds  for 
the  premium  ?  " 

"  Why  me,  dear,"  put  in  Annie,  who  shook  like  a  leaf  as  she 
met  the  boy's  stern  look.  "  What  ever  else  have  I  been  savin' 
for  if  it  wasn't  to  give  you  a  good  start  in  life  ?  " 

He  stood  away  from  the  wall  and  looked  her  quietly  in  the 
face. 

"  Thank  you,  mother,"  he  said,  with  evident  self-repression, 
"  but  your  fifty  pounds  must  never  be  spent  on  that.  I've 
started  myself  in  life,  and  I  shall  stick  to  the  road  I've  chosen. 
I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  you  shouldn't  have  disposed 
of  me  without  asking  my  opinion.  I'm  not  a  stone  nor  a 
mummy.  I'm  sorry  if  you  are  going  to  think  yourself  badly 
treated,  but  to  be  boxed  up  in  an  office  is  the  last  thing  I 
desire,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  be  made  to  lead  a  life 
that  would  go  dead  against  me." 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  the  little  old  man;  "come,  come, 
now!" 

"  It's  true,  sir,  and  I  repeat  it.  I'm  happy  where  I  am,  and 
I  want  to  be  let  alone.  Suppose  I  am  only  earning  a  little, 
you  can't  get  me  more.  On  the  contrary,  you  pay  out  to  get 
me  nothing  at  all  for  a  year  !  Who's  to  keep  me  while  I  earn 
nothing  for  a  year?  My  mother?  Not  if  I  know  it!  I'd 
rather  live  on  five  shillings  a  week  of  my  own  earning  until  I 
could  prove  that  I  was  wonh  more.  My  mother  kept  me  long 
enough,  and  now  I'm  off  her  hands.  I'm  too  old  to  be  thrown 
on  them  again.  All  she  has  got  she  wants  herself.  Why," 
finished  the  boy  passionately,  "  what  the — the — dickens  should 
I  be  worth  if  T  could  let  her  throw  away  fifty  pounds  on  me 
now  ?  " 

"  Lin,"  Annie  said  gently,  "  to  give  you  a  good  start  have  bin 


a2o  Hnnie  Deane 

the  thought  that's  kep'  me  alive.  Don't  talk  as  if  you  was 
grown  up  away  from  me,  dear — it's  foolish." 

"  It  is  not,  mother — it's  sense.  I  tell  you  I  have  started 
myself,  and  I'm  going  my  own  road." 

"  No,  no,  my  boy,"  interposed  Mr.  Holt ;  "  that  no  man 
may  say,  much  less  a  boy.  Our  own  road  is  so  often  a  bad 
road  for  us,  that  well  is  it  if  we  get  turned  back  at  the  Turn- 
pike Gate  of  Duty.  Now,  duty  to  your  mother  must  be  your 
first  consideration.  She  has  been  more  than  a  mother  to  you. 
She  has  had  a  double  part  to  play,  and  she  has  done  it  very 
well." 

The  boy's  flashing  eyes  dropped,  his  under-lip  and  chin 
quivered  a  bit. 

"  I  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all  about  that,  and  don't 
you  think  I  forget  it.  It's  just  this  which  makes  me  say 
she  has  done  enough  for  me.     I  can't  let  her  do  any  more." 

"  So  you  wish  to  make  her  life  of  no  account  to  her  by  way 
of  showing  your  independence  ?  Take  the  care  of  you  away 
from  her,  and  what  has  she  left  to  live  for?  And  yet  you 
w  ithdraw  yourself  from  her  at  sixteen,  and  tell  her  you  don't 
want  her  any  longer." 

"  I  do !  I  do !  "  cried  Lin,  in  distress.  "  Where's  the  use  of 
saying  cruel  things  like  that  ?  I  love  my  mother,  and  she  shall 
have  all  the  consideration  I  know  how  to  give  her;  but  I  want 
consideration,  too — I  want  to  be  understood.  As  long  as  I 
can  get  my  own  living — and  I  can  get  it — why  not  let  me  get  it 
in  my  own  way?  Why  force  me  into  something  that  would 
be  hateful  to  me  ?  There's  no  sense  in  that,  or  if  there  is,  I 
can't  see  it." 

"  If  'twas  anything  good  enough,"  here  put  in  Annie  eagerly, 
"  I'd  let  you  stop;  but  I've  always  made  up  my  mind  that  you 
never  should  stop  behind  a  counter." 

"It's  not  being  behind  a  counter,"  said  Lin  quickly.  "I 
shouldn't  like  that  myself.  I  am  getting  on.  Already  Mr. 
Hoskins  has  pupils — pupils  that  are  not  forward  enough  for  the 
Professor,  or  who  can't  afford  his  terms,  and  I'm  getting  every 
day  more  fit  to  take  his  place  in  the  shop.  I  shall  get  on;  I 
will  get  on ;  my  heart's  in  it.  Look  back  at  the  last  five  years, 
and  see  if  I've  not  got  on  as  it  is.  I  went  there  to  sweep  out 
the  shop  and  to  clean  the  windows,  and  now  I  can  serve  as 
well  as  Mr.  Hoskins  can,  and  anything  in  the  ordinary  way  I 
can  play  at  sight.  Hoskins  has  helped  me,  I  know;  but  it  is 
my  own  plodding  that  has  helped  me  most,  and  I'm  proud  of 
it     Since  I  was  twelve  I've  kept  myself,  and  if  I  can't  keep 


Hnnie  bas  ber  own  Mas  ««» 

myself  now,  then  I'll  live  on  bread  and  cheese  until  I  can  get 
something  better ;  but  I  won't  be  stoved  up  in  an  office,  mother 
— no,  not  even  to  p\ea.se  you." 

She  did  not  say  a  word,  but  the  big  tears  chased  each  other 
down  her  cheeks  and  fell  upon  her  work-worn  hands.  Now, 
Lin's  heart  was  tender,  and  those  big,  bright  tears  broke  it 
altogether.     He  went  up  and  wiped  them  away. 

"  Look  here,  mother,"  he  said,  in  a  protecting  grown-up  sort 
of  way,  which  would  have  been  pathetic  had  it  not  been 
comical,  "  I  know  no  mtoher  on  earth  ever  meant  to  be  kinder 
to  a  fellow  than  you  mean  to  be  to  me,  but  you  don't  understand^ 
so  you  have  made  a  mistake,  that's  all.  I  know  I'm  not  doing 
anything  wonderful  at  present,  but  I'm  no  age ;  and  as  I  said 
just  now,  I  mean  to  get  on.  The  Professor  is  awfully  kind. 
When  he  gave  me  that  last  rise  he  said  he  knew  it  wasn't  much, 
but  that  if  I  liked  to  hold  on  for  a  year  or  two  he  would  see 
that  something  better  turned  up  for  me  presently.  Besides,  I 
can  tune  as  well  as  any  man  we've  got.  Let  me  alone,  and 
trust  me  to  take  care  of  myself.  Keep  your  money  in  the 
bank,  and  some  day,  when  I'm  old  enough,  it  will  help  to 
furnish  a  house  which,  if  I  know  anything,  I  shall  be  able  to 
keep  going.  I'll  look  forward  to  keeping  you  as  much  as  you 
like,  but  I've  done  with  letting  you  keep  me." 

She  smiled  at  his  boyish  confidence,  at  what  she  considered 
his  boyish  ignorance,  but  was  not  one  whit  moved  by  it.  She 
and  Mr.  Holt  returned  to  the  attack  with  calm  persistence,  and 
Lin  stood  it  without  flinching.  They  spent  a  couple  of  hours 
in  persuasion  and  argument,  and  when  the  boy  left  neither  they 
nor  he  had  budged  an  inch.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  ignore 
the  whole  matter,  and  he  did  so  until,  finding  that  the  Professor 
had  received  notice  of  his  removal,  he  could  do  so  no  longer. 
Then  he  saw  that  his  mother  meant  to  have  her  own  way,  and 
he  resisted  with  all  his  might. 

His  chief  hope  was  in  the  Professor  himself. 

"  Unless  you  dismiss  me,  sir,"  he  said,  with  white  lips  and 
flashing  eyes,  "  I  shall  not  go.  I  can't  help  what  other  people 
happen  to  think  best  for  me.  I'm  your  servant,  and  I  want 
to  stop  here." 

"  And  I  am  very  willing  that  you  should,"  said  the  Professor ; 
"  but  you  see,  Deane,  I  don't  want  to  stand  in  your  light." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Holt  called  upon  me,  and  I  understood  something 
that  I  had  not  done  until  then.  The  old  man  is  well-to-do, 
and  has  no  kin  of  his  own." 


222  Hnnie  Deancc^ 

"What  of  that,  sir?" 

"  What  of  that  ?  Why,  he  may  as  well  take  an  interest  in 
you  as  anybody  else,  mayn't  he?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Deane, 
if  you  humour  the  old  man  a  bit,  you  may  presently  find  your- 
self in  luck's  way,  and  that  without  doing  anyone  else  any 
injury." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  give  that  a  thought,  sir," 
said  Lin,  with  contempt ;  "  and  I  shouldn't  like  myself  if  I 
could  *  humour '  a  kind  old  man  for  what  I  could  get.  You 
are  mistaken  if  you  think  he  is  to  pay  this  premium.  My 
mother's  savings  are  to  go  for  that." 

"  Yes,  but  then  you  see  you  get  a  good  home  with  them,  and 
your  mother's  savings  are  sure  to  be  refunded  presently.  No, 
Deane,  I'm  sorry  to  part  with  you,  and  if  I  could  offer  you  any- 
thing as  good  as  this  berth  you  are  going  into,  I  would  say 
*  Stay ; '  but  I  can't,  so  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  turn  you  over  to 
your  friends.  Don't  think  me  unfriendly,  and  don't  make 
yourself  unhappy.  Your  music  will  be  a  capital  amusement 
for  you,  and  wherever  you  go,  my  lad,  you're  as  sure  to  make 
friends  as  the  sun  is  sure  to  shine.  You've  got  the  knack — 
don't  lose  it." 

Lin  felt  himself  dismissed — as,  indeed,  he  was.  He  gave  up 
hope  then,  and  grew  very  quiet  and  unlike  himself. 

"  You  mean  to  persist,  mother  ?  "  he  said,  in  final  appeal. 
"  You  are  really  going  against  me?  " 

"  My  dear,  it's  for  your  good — on'y  for  that." 

"  Never  mind  my  good — you  mean  me  to  go  into  this 
office?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  please.^' 

He  gave  her  an  odd  look  from  his  near-set  eyes  which  made 
her  uncomfortable. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  if  this  is  my  duty,  mother,  I'll 
do  it  J  but  you  have  misunderstood  me  in  a  way  that  it  will 
take  me  a  long  time  to  forget.  I'll  try  to  forgive  you,  because 
you  don't  know.     If  you  did,  you  wouldn't  be  so  cruel." 

She  turned  away,  and  walked  her  room  for  the  best  part  of 
that  night ;  but  she  was  too  obstinate  to  give  way  as  long  as 
she  believed  herself  to  be  in  the  right.  The  premium  was  paid, 
and  Lin  went  into  the  City  office. 

For  the  first  few  months  everything  was  very  wretched.  The 
lad  himself  was  like  a  plant  which,  suddenly  inverted,  was 
yet  expected  to  thrive.  His  sweet  and  sunny  temper,  rendered 
sw  -^ter  and  sunnier  by  independence,  changed  to  a  weary 
irritability  very  painful  to  see.    With  the  extravagant  obstinacy 


Hnnfe  bas  ber  own  Ma^  223 

of  youth,  he  turned  his  back  upon  everything  connected  with 
his  old  life,  upon  his  old  pleasures  and  his  old  friends.  The 
very  mention  of  music  he  forbade  himself,  nor  would  he  suffer 
a  melody  to  enter  his  head,  but  would  fiercely  crush  it  down 
and  turn  from  it  in  actual  pain.  No  jilted  lover  ever  felt  more 
completely  cut  off  from  all  that  is  good  in  life  than  Lin  did  for 
those  first  months  in  his  new  berth.  His  mother  began  to 
waver,  to  wonder  if,  after  all,  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  to 
know  what  it  is  to  pay  too  dearly  for  one's  own  way.  She 
suffered  much  in  those  days,  for  the  lad  seemed  other  than  her 
lad,  and  daily  drifted  further  away  from  her.  He  had  taken  up 
his  residence  in  Merryon  Square  as  he  had  taken  up  his  new 
occupation,  because  he  was  desired  to,  because  he  had  no 
means  of  providing  himself  a  home  elsewhere ;  but  when  Annie 
flew  to  the  door  to  let  him  in,  he  would  pass  into  the  hall  with 
his  shoulder  raised  between  his  mother's  wistful  face  and  his 
own,  then  at  night  he  would  slip  upstairs  on  some  pretext  or 
other,  and  Annie  knew  this  was  done  to  shirk  her  good-night 
kiss.  He  seldom  looked  her  in  the  face,  and — when  he  did 
speak — spoke  in  a  self-repressed  way  which  never  failed  to  cut 
her  to  the  heart. 

"  I've  had  my  way,"  she  kept  telling  herself  drearily.  "  I  did 
it  all  for  the  best,  but  I'm  afraid  I've  bin  wrong.  His  music 
had  got  too  much  a  hold  over  him.  If  I'd  took  him  away 
sooner,  it  would  have  bin  all  right.  He  looks  that  bad  and 
thin  !     An'  he  doesn't  seem  like  my  Lin  at  all." 

Even  the  old  man  grew  uneasy,  although  he  would  not  own  it. 

•'  Don't  watch  him  about  so,"  he  would  say  impatiently,  "and 
do  let  him  alone.  Take  no  notice  of  his  little  tantrums,  and 
he'll  come  round  all  the  sooner." 

Lin  did  come  round  after  a  bit  as  far  as  the  oW  man  was 
concerned,  for  it  suddenly  dawned  on  him  that  he  was  deeply 
indebted  to  him  for  board  and  shelter,  and  that  if  he  accepted 
hospitality  he  might  return  it  in  simple  kindness  and  attention. 
He  set  himself  to  do  this;  and  felt  all  the  better  for  it,  reading 
the  old  man  the  news  of  the  day,  or  going  out  with  him,  or 
playing  him  an  occasional  game  of  cribbage  or  draughts.  Also 
he  came  round  sufficiently  to  make  new  friends  in  the  office, 
and  to  find  for  himself  new  life  and  interest  in  the  world  of 
books ,  still,  from  his  two  old  loves,  from  his  music  and  his 
mother,  he  turned  away  in  sensitive  pain.  Both  had  been  so 
dear  to  him,  and  both  had  so  cruelly  failed  him  ! 

His  manner  to  Annie  was  never  anything  but  civil,  his 
voice  never  anything  but  cold.     At  last  she  could  bear  it  uo 


sa4  Bnnie  2)eanc 

longer,  and  one  night  when  he  went  to  bed  she  followed  him 
into  his  room. 

"  Lin,"  she  said,  "  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?  "said  he,  attentively  looking  at  the 
wall. 

"  You  didn't  kiss  me." 

Lin  was  silent. 

"  Did  you  forget,  or  are  you  got  too  old?" 

"  Neither,"  he  said  drearily,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed ;  "  I'm  tired,  and  wanted  to  come  to  bed." 

"You  never  used  to  get  tired,  dear.  Is  it  that  you're  not 
well  ?     I've  thought  lately  that  you  haven't  bin." 

She  went  nearer,  getting  up  courage  to  touch  him ;  he 
divined  her  intention,  and  rose  to  frustrate  it. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?  Of  course,  I'll  kiss  you  if  you 
want  me  to.     Good-night." 

•'  Stop,  dear.  You  know  I  want  you  to  kiss  me,  but  first  I 
want  to  know  why  you  don't." 

He  thought  a  moment  with  set  lips  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  white,  "  I  think  you've  your- 
self to  blame,  mother.  You  taught  me  to  value  sincerity — 
honesty — second  to  nothing  in  the  world.  When  I  used  to  kiss 
you  I  meant  it,  and  when  I  can  mean  it  again  I  will  kiss  you 
again,  but  I  can't  make-believe.  I  should  feel  like  a— a — 
Judas  r' 

She  stood  a  second  or  two,  then  : 

"  Very  well,  my  son,"  she  said  patiently,  and  turning  out  of 
his  room,  she  shut  the  door. 

Whereupon  Lin  felt  like  a  dozen  Judases  rolled  into  one, 
and  thought  he  would  go  and  find  her  up  and  kiss  her  at  once. 
But  her  obstinacy  was  reproduced  in  him,  and  though  he  could 
not  sleep  for  thinking  of  her,  he  did  not  go. 

"  I  can't,"  he  kept  telling  himself.  **  I  simply  cannot  forget 
it.  I  can  forgive  the  others,  because  I  was  nothing  to  them; 
they  didn't  pretend  to  have  any  love  for  me.  But  she  did. 
She  lived  with  me  day  after  day  for  two  years.  I  never  kept 
any  thought  or  hope  I  had  away  from  her.  She  must  have 
known — she  did  know,  and  she  trampled  my  hopes  underfoot 
without  a  grain  of  pity.  Well,  I  did  all  I  could — I  gave  in; 
but  she  can't  expect  me  to  be  the  same  to  her.  That  is 
impossible." 

And  he  was  not  the  same  to  her — quite  ;  but  he  was  better 
'lian  he  thought  he  was,  and  her  quiet,  patient  face  soon  began 


Hnnie  bas  ber  own  Mai?  225 

to  cut  him  like  a  knife.  Before  many  days  had  passed,  he  had 
bent  over  her  chair  and  kissed  her  of  his  own  accord. 

"We  are  coming  on,"  the  old  man  chuckled  delightedly. 
"  Stop  until  the  end  of  the  year,  when  we  begin  to  take  our 
salary,  and  we  shall  be  as  right  as  a  trivet ! " 

And  at  the  end  of  the  year,  or  rather  some  little  time  after 
the  year  had  ended,  Lin  certainly  brightened,  and  began  to 
grow  back  into  his  own  likeness ;  but  tlie  salary  was  not  the 
cause.  The  cause  was  his  old  friend  Hoskins,  who  looked  him 
up,  and  having  found  him,  insisted  on  taking  him  home  to  see 
Mrs.  Hoskins  and  the — baby. 

Lin  blushed  and  felt  awkward  at  first,  but  the  baby,  who 
had  attained  the  dignity  of  short  petticoats,  and  buttoned  shoes 
that  were  perpetually  falling  off,  was  of  a  friendly  turn,  and 
took  to  Lin  straightway;  and,  what  was  more  astonishing,  Lin 
took  to  the  baby. 

Hoskins  rated  him  soundly  for  having  utterly  shelved  his 
music. 

"  No  wonder  you  look  dismal,"  he  said ;  "  why,  I'm  sure  you 
can't  have  been  happy  if  you  have  never  touched  a  piano. 
You  must  have  been  starved  !  " 

*'  He  looks  thin  enough,"  Mrs.  Hoskins  said  affectionately, 
**  and — yes — anything  but  happy." 

"  Happy  ?  "  said  Lin,  with  a  laugh ;  "  no,  I  certainly  have  not 
been  that.  I  am  afraid  the  sight  of  you  will  send  me  back  to 
my  old  habits." 

"  Bravo  ! "  said  Hoskins.  "  Take  up  your  music  again  by 
all  means.  At  least,  it  is  a  harmless  hobby,  and  even  a 
business  man  must  have  a  hobby." 

Lin  gave  way  to  his  old  habits,  and,  after  business  hours  did 
two  or  three  times  a  week  find  his  way  to  the  familiar  rooms 
over  the  shop,  sometimes  taking  Hoskins's  place  in  the  shop 
while  that  gentleman  gave  a  lesson,  sometimes  going  for  a  walk 
with  him,  sometimes  going  back  to  supper  with  him  ;  but  always 
feeling  thoroughly  at  home,  much  more  so  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  Merryon  Square. 

Even  his  salary  was  of  small  comfort  to  him,  for  the  love  of 
independence  had  been  so  early  ground  into  him  that  he 
refused  to  accept  what  he  thought  to  be  an  old  man*s  charity. 
Which  refusal  caused  that  old  man  genuine  grief. 

"Isn't  your  being  here  a  great  pleasure  to  me?"  said  he. 
**  Don't  you  think  that  I  should  miss  you  very  much  ?  That 
on  those  evenings  which  you  spend  elsewhere  I'm  like  an  old 
fish  out  of  water  ?     Haven't  I  known  you  since  you  first  began 

P 


226  Hnnfe  Deane 

to  toddle?  And  don't  you  know  that  even  an  old  buffer  of 
eighty  or  thereabouts  likes  a  young  face  and  a  young  voice 
about  him  ?  Dear  me,  dear  me  !  wouldn't  I  rather  pay  you  a 
good  salary  just  to  keep  you,  than  I'd  lose  the  pleasure  of 
having  you  about  me." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  said  Lin;  "but  I  can't  look  at  this 
thing  in  the  way  you  look  at  it,  and  I  shouldn't  be  worth  much 
if  I  could.  I  must  try  to  keep  up  appearances  on  as  little  as 
I  can,  and  I  shall  turn  over  the  rest  for  the  privilege  of  living 
here.  Unless  you  agree  to  this,  I  must  find  a  room  for  myself 
or  share  some  other  fellow's." 

So  he  walked  to  Brixton  when  he  might  have  ridden,  pro- 
tected the  soles  of  his  well-worn  boots  with  patent  abomina- 
tions the  sight  of  which  made  his  mother  cry,  took  more  care 
of  his  clothes  than  a  girl  takes  of  her  love-letters,  and  ate  his 
heart  out  because  of  his  false  and — to  him — humiliating 
position. 

Even  when  his  salary  was  raised  he  was  little  better  off,  for 
unhappiness,  together  with  the  confinement  of  the  inner  office, 
undermined  his  health,  and  compelled  him  either  to  give  up 
or  to  seek  medical  advice.  He  did  the  latter  secretly,  and 
secretly  paid  the  bills.  In  this  way  his  third  year  in  the  office 
wore  away. 

The  fourth  opened  badly.  The  summer  was  long,  intensely 
hot,  and  Lin's  powers  of  endurance  were  taxed  to  the  utmost 
He  held  on  from  day  to  day,  making  no  complaint,  but  on 
many  occasions  finding  himself  unable  to  stick  to  his  desk 
when  he  went  to  business.  Then  he  would  commit  the  ex- 
travagance of  a  'bus,  and  would  go  to  Brixton  rather  than  to 
Merryon  Square,  being  too  proud  to  show  his  mother  this 
unpleasant  result  of  his  being  forced  out  of  his  natural  groove. 

"  Anything,"  thought  Lin  doggedly,  "  rather  than  she  should 
break  her  heart  over  me,  and  make  a  fuss.  I'll  go  till  I  drop, 
and  then  it  won't  take  long  to  finish  me." 

Once  at  Brixton  he  always  felt  better.  Mrs.  Hoskins  was 
good  to  him,  but  in  a  cheery  way,  which  did  not  embarrass 
him,  and  which  won  for  her  the  affection  and  confidence  that 
Annie  had  alienated  from  herself. 

A  summer  holiday,  spent  with  his  Brixton  friends  by  the  sea, 
set  Lin  up  again  for  a  time ;  but  when  the  summer  heat  had 
held  its  sway,  the  fogs  and  damp  of  the  London  winter  held 
theirs,  and  a  very  potent  one  it  proved  to  a  tired  young  fellow 
who  began  to  feel  as  if  some  lifeless  weight  were  laid  upon  his 
shoulders  and  tightening  about  his  chest.     In  truths  he  was  all 


Hnnfc  baa  bet  own  Mas  aa? 

but  done  up,  and  his  increasing  delicacy  of  appearance  could 
no  longer  escape  remark. 

"  Lin,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  cried  his  mother  one 
night  in  despair,  when  he  went  straight  up  from  the  front  door 
to  bed.  "  You're  never  well  now,  and  yet  you  won't  tell  me  a 
word  about  it." 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter,"  he  said  quietly,  *'  nothing  at 
all.  We  have  scarcely  been  able  to  see  across  the  office  all  day, 
even  with  the  gas  lit.  How  can  a  fellow  feel  brilliant  in  such 
an  atmosphere  as  that  ?  And  I  had  to  walk  home  through  it ; 
the  'buses  ceased  running  early  in  the  day.  I  feel  half- 
strangled.     A  London  fog  never  suited  me." 

"  I  shall  send  for  a  doctor,"  said  Annie. 

"  I've  been  to  one." 

«' What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  nothing  that  one  could  afford  to  pay  attention  ta 
Don't  worry.     Good-night." 

"  No,  no  !  You  must  have  something.  I'll  light  a  fire  her^ 
and  bring  you  something  up." 

**  Don't,  please.     I  couldn't  eat  it." 

Lin  gently  dismissed  her.  Moreover,  to  be  quite  sure  that 
she  did  not  reappear,  he  followed  her  to  the  door  and  locked 
it.  Then  he  kicked  off  his  boots  and  lay  down  to  scrape 
together  sufficient  strength  and  courage  to  undress  and  get 
into  bed.  But  he  was  at  his  post  at  the  usual  time  on  the 
following  morning,  and  managed  to  get  to  Brixton  the  following 
night.  After  which  he  took  to  going  there  quite  as  often  as  to 
Merryon  Square,  and  when  asked  why,  he  would  answer  that 
Brixton  agreed  with  him,  and  that  the  Hoskins  were  so  jolly 
kind! 

Sorely  jealous  of  the  Brixton  people  was  Annie  in  those  days, 
and  sorely  wretched,  too.  Such  was  the  unsatisfactory  state  of 
things  which  prevailed  right  up  to  the  spring  preceding  Lin's 
twentieth  birthday. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

LIN   HAS   HIS 

On  a  certain  stormy  day  in  early  March,  Lin  promised  his 
mother  to  come  home  to  tea  instead  of  going  to  Brixton.  He 
usually  kept  his  promises,  but  that  evening  the  tea-table  stood 
in  untouched  readiness  until  nearly  seven,  when  Annie  roused 
the  little  old  man,  who  sat  dozing  by  the  fire. 

"  He  isn't  comin*,''  she  said  patiently.  "  I  suppose  he 
didn't  feel  well  again,  an'  so  went — there^  as  usual." 

The  old  man  drew  up  to  the  table. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said  cheerily ;  "  I  daresay  they're  livelier 
company  than  we  are.  Perhaps  there's  a  girl  at  Brixton, 
Emma  ?  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  There  are  such  things  as 
girls,  you  know,  and  the  boys  are  sure  to  find  them  out.  Let 
him  alone,  and  have  your  tea  in  peace.  Dear,  dear,  what  an 
unhappy  creature  is  a  mother  with  a  boy  !  " 

"  But  it  rains  so  heavily,"  she  said ;  "  an'  wherever  he  is,  he 
wouldn't  take  a  cab." 

When  tea  was  over  she  put  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  stood 
at  the  front  door  watching  the  driving  rain. 

•*  What  a  night,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver,  "an'  he  is  so  ill !  I 
know  it  won't  be  long  before  he'll  give  in  an'  own  it.  Even 
then  I  believe  he  won't  let  me  do  anythin'  for  him.  Oh,  if  I 
could  but  see  my  time  over  agen,  I'd  never  force  him  agenst 
his  will." 

It  was  long  past  nine  when  Lin,  drenched  to  the  skin,  ran 
up  the  steps. 

Annie  flew  to  the  door.     "  Oh,  my  darlin',  are  you  wet  ?  " 

"Well,  mother,  I  am  wet.  I'll  go  straight  to  bed.  No,  I 
won't,  though.     I  will  tell  you  something  before  I  go.'' 

Here  the  old  man  shuffled  to  the  dining-room  door,  where 
he  stood  and  shook  his  fist. 

"You  are  killing  your  mother  with  anxiety,  young  man," 
said  he,  "  and  yourself  with  your  own  confounded  obstinacy. 
If  I  wasn't  so  old  and  so  shaky  I'd  pitch  into  you." 

Lin  laughed,  and  coming  into  the  light  of  fire  and  gas, 

228 


%in  bas  Ibis  229 

showed  his  mother  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  with  two  patches  of 
colour  under  them  much  too  vivid  to  be  safe.  Her  colour 
answered  them  in  a  sudden  panic  of  fear. 

"  Do  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  "an'  don't  stan'  here  in  your  wet 
clothes." 

"  I  can't  go  until  I've  got  rid  of  what  I  want  to  say.  I  was 
queer  this  morning,  and  Mr.  Williams  told  me  to  take  the  day 
off.  I  felt  better  when  I  got  outside,  so  I  went  to  Brixton,  and 
during  the  afternoon  the  Professor  looked  in.  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  nearly  two  years,  so  I  walked  up  to  his  own  house  with 
him.     I  have  come  from  there  now." 

He  looked  at  his  mother's  anxious  face,  and  touched  it 
kindly  with  an  ice-cold  hand. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  dear,"  he  said,  in  his 
own  old  affectionate  way ;  "  but  you  have  had  your  way  for 
nearly  four  years,  and  it  has  not  answered  either  for  you  or  for 
me.  So  now  I  am  going  to  have  my  way — I  am  going  back 
to  my  old  hfe." 

She  put  up  her  hands  and  covered  her  face.  Lin  took  them 
away  and  drew  them  round  his  neck. 

"  But  for  the  thought  of  your  hard-earned  fifty  pounds, 
mother,  I  should  never  have  stuck  to  this  as  I  have.  But 
now  I  must  give  it  up,  or  it  will  give  me  up.  Dear  old 
Staniforth  owned  to-day  that  he  always  had  a  hope  of  my 
voice  being  of  permanent  value  to  me,  but  had  been  afraid 
to  tell  me  so  because  I  might  have  built  too  many  hopes  on 
what  he  said,  and  everybody  is  liable  to  be  mistaken.  Now 
there  can  be  no  mistake.  My  voice  is  weak,  but  that  is  due 
to  my  state  of  health,  and  as  I  get  better  it  will  get  stronger. 
I  am  going  back  to  Brixton,  and  he  is  going  to  coach  me  up  a 
bit.  I  am  awfully  sorry,  on  your  account;  but  if  I  keep  on  at 
this  sort  of  thing  I  shall  run  you  to  the  expense  of  a  funeral." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  but  he  shivered  too,  and  seemed 
excitable  and  unlike  himself. 

Annie  controlled  herself  at  onca 

"Very  well,  dear.  As  long  as  you're  happy  I'll  try  to  be 
happy  too.  If  I  made  a  mistake  about  the  life  I  chose  for 
you,  it's  bin  on'y  out  o'  love  for  you,  an'  you  must  forgive 
me." 

"  What  nonsense  ! "  cried  Lin  hastily ;  "  as  if  I  didn't 
understand  that.  The  Professor  was  delightfully  candid.  He 
said,  'Now  I  am  not  saying  that  you  will  ever  be  Sims 
Reeves  or  Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  but  I  am  saying  that  you  will 
have  a  tenor  voice  good  enough  to  ensure  you  moderate 


»so  Bnnle  I>canc 

success.  Anyhow,  you  can  earn  more  on  a  platform  than  you 
can  in  an  office,  or  1  am  making  a  great  mistake.' " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Annie  interposed  firmly ;  "  but  I  can't  let  you 
Stan'  here  another  minute  in  these  soakin'  things.  Your  coat 
is  beginnin'  to  steam." 

He  let  her  take  the  coat  off,  talking  all  the  while  upon  the 
subject  of  which  his  head  and  heart  were  both  full.  But  pre- 
sently Annie  and  the  old  man  combined,  and  persuaded  him 
to  go  to  bed. 

'*  Don't  lock  your  door,"  his  mother  said,  as  he  went ;  "  I 
shall  be  up  in  ten  minutes  with  some  coffee." 

But  when  she  took  it  up,  Lin  turned  away  with  a  shudder. 

"  Not  to-night,  dear,"  he  said,  "  I'd  rather  have  water.  I 
feel  sick  and  shivery.  1  daresay  it's  nothing.  You  can  stay 
with  me  a  bit,  if  you  like." 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  talked  to  him  until  he  grew 
drowsy.  Then  she  turned  the  gas  low,  left  the  door  ajar,  and 
crept  away  to  her  own  room.  In  spite  of  her  disappointment 
about  the  office,  she  felt  happier  than  she  had  done  for  years. 
Tiie  cloud  between  Lin  and  herself  had  quite  cleared  away. 
He  was  Aer  Lin  again,  boyish  and  frank  and  affectionate,  so  all 
the  rest  might  go. 

But  the  next  day  there  was  trouble  in  Merryon  Square. 
Lin  was  evidently  in  for  a  sharp  illness,  and  the  heart  of  Lin's 
mother  stood  still  with  fear.  Nor — when  summoned — did 
Mr.  Holt's  much-trusted  medical  man  bring  her  any  comfort. 
It  is  true  that  he  was  very  cheerful,  but  then  he  was  that  even 
when  he  undertook  to  account  for  his  patient's  extreme 
prostration,  and  did  it,  too,  with  exasperating  ease.  He  was 
cheerful  even  while  explaining  to  Mr.  Holt  and  Annie  that, 
under  the  circumstances,  it  really  would  not  be  anything 
remarkable  if  Lin  failed  to  pull  through. 

"  Because,  you  see,"  said  he,  "  he  must  have  been  below  the 
mark  for  some  time  past.  I  wonder  that  he  has  not  com- 
plained, or  that  you  have  not  noticed  anything  amiss.  I  think 
you  told  me  that  he  is  a  clerk." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Annie  stonily. 

"  Well,  now,  I  should  not  let  him  stick  to  that.  Through 
such  a  season  as  we  have  had,  the  atmosphere  of  a  gas-lit  office 
has  been  slow  poison  to  him.  He  can  never  have  been  robust, 
and  a  sedentary  occupation  in  a  close  room  was  not  the  thing 
for  him.  I  know  it  is  difficult  to  regulate  these  matters,  but  I 
must  point  out  to  you  how  easy  I  find  it  to  trace  his  present 
condition  back  to  its  cause,  and  that  no  skill  brought  to  bear 


%i\\  Ms  t)is  «3i 

upon  a  sudden  development  or — or — effect  can  be  expected  to 
neutralise  a  mischief  of  such  long  standing." 

Annie  bore  the  doctor's  lecture  as  well  as  she  could,  but  she 
stood  stupidly  still  when  it  was  ended,  and  even  forgot  to 
attend  the  lecturer  to  the  front  door.  His  every  word  was  a 
stab  to  a  heart  already  very  sore.  To  see  Lin  suffer  was  bad 
enough,  but  to  know  herself  the  cause  was  torture  unbearable. 

The  kind  old  man  could  have  killed  his  much-trusted  medical 
adviser  for  speaking  out  in  such  brutal  fashion. 

"  Don't  take  any  notice,"  said  he  angrily ;  "  it  isn't  worth 
while.  They  are  expected  to  say  something,  and  they  must 
say  it.  Half  the  time  they  don't  stop  to  consider  what  they 
do  say.  Now,  only  think  of  what  this  man  says,  and  see  how 
ridiculous  it  is  on  the  face  of  it !  As  if  the  atmosphere  of  any 
office  could  have  given  the  boy  inflammation  of  the  lungs  and 
— and — complications  !  Now,  I  ask  anybody  in  common  fair- 
ness if  the  office  could  have  given  him  f/iaf?  Didn't  he  get 
soaking  wet  yesterday,  when  he  wasn't  well  to  start  with,  and 
then  walk  home  like  the  pig-headed  young  fool  that  he  is? 
Did  the  office  do  that  ?  Did  the  office  put  him  into  the  raging 
fever  of  excitement  he  was  in  when  we  were  persuading  him  to 
get  out  of  his  wet  clothes  and  go  to  bed  ?     Absurd  ! " 

'•  He'll  die  ! "  she  moaned  wretchedly.  "  I  know  he'll  die, 
an'  I  shall  be  to  blame  for  it." 

"  He  sharCt  die ! "  said  the  old  man,  thumping  the  table 
with  his  fat  little  fists.  "  I  say  he  shan't  die,  if  we  have  to  get 
the  finest  advice  in  all  London." 

And  Lin  did  not  die,  though  for  the  next  fortnight  there  was 
some  fear  of  his  doing  so — so  much  fear,  indeed,  that  his  pale 
mother  might  easily  have  stepped  on  to  a  pedestal  to  pose  as  a 
model  for  "  Grief,"  or  "  Dread,"  or  "  Remorse,"  or  any  other 
of  the  acute  woes  to  which  humanity  is  a  victim.  She  looked 
so  wretched  that  Lin  really  tried  his  hardest  to  fan  into  a 
flame  his  feeble  spark  of  a  desire  to  live ;  which  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  his  ultimate  success.  At  any  rate, 
having  shaved  the  dangerous  corner,  he  found  himself  on  the 
high  road  to  recovery,  where,  however,  he  was  met  by  a  for- 
midable obstacle.  His  cheerful  doctor,  backed  up  by  a  famous 
specialist,  said  that  so  far  his  progress  was  satisfactory,  but 
that  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  be  extremely  candid.  The  spring 
promised  to  be  backward  and  cold,  and  unless  his  patient  were 
sent  somewhere  out  of  reach  of  its  treacheries  he  would  not 
answer  for  consequences. 

In  other  words,  Lin  was  ordered  abroad. 


23*  Hnnie  2)cane 

Annie  went  up  to  her  own  room,  and  there  thought  the 
matter  out,  with  this  result :  She  resolved  for  the  second  time 
in  her  life  to  find  that  celebrated  singer,  who  was  not  yet 
married,  and  then  to  ask  him  if  this,  his  son,  would  have  to 
die  for  want  •(  a  little  money.  She  had  a  little  herself,  but  she 
had  no  idea  what  the  expense  of  going  abroad  might  prove  to 
be.  Whatever  it  was,  ^  had  enough  and  to  spare  ;  she  would 
go  to  him.  Besides,  if  Lin  had  really  made  up  his  mind  to 
follow  music  as  a  profession,  why,  here  was  a  splendid  chance. 
Surely  Mr.  Le  Quesne  would  not  refuse  to  extend  him  a 
helping  hand?  Surely  here  was  her  opportunity.  For  herself 
she  wanted  nothing,  but  for  Lin's  sake  she  would  lower  herself 
to  ask.  In  hot  haste  she  went  downstairs,  and,  collecting  a 
heap  of  Lin's  musical  papers,  carefully  looked  them  through. 
But  she  had  never  seen  the  name  of  "  Le  Quesne  "  in  print, 
and  the  great  difference  in  the  spelling  and  the  pronunciation 
of  it  baffled  her  completely.  She  actually  found  it  and  spelt  it 
over  laboriously  to  herself,  but  it  was  associated  with  many 
others,  all  of  the  unpronounceable  and  unfamiliar  type. 

"  These  are  foreign  names,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh  of  despair, 
"and  tho'  his  is  a  funny  name,  I  know  it's  English.  It  must 
be,  since  he's  an  Englishman.  I'll  have  to  lead  Lin  on  to 
talkin'  about  him,  then  I'll  ast  how  he  spells  the  name  an* 
where  he's  to  be  found.  Lin  wouldn't  think  it  funny  o'  me 
astin',  and  he'd  be  sure  to  know  where  he  is." 

Full  of  this  design  upon  Lin's  innocence,  she  went  up  to  his 
room,  and  found  Mr.  Holt  keeping  him  company. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  old  man,  as  she  opened  the  door,  "  here 
you  are.  Come  in  and  sit  down.  We  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

She  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  Lin's  easy-chair  and  took  his 
head  on  her  shoulder. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  said  the  old  man  testily,  "and  don't 
coddle  him  up  so.  He'd  need  to  go  away  for  a  bit,  or  he'll  fancy 
he's  a  girl." 

Annie  only  laughed,  and  held  him  closer. 

"  You  see,  we  are  face  to  face  with  a  difficulty.  That  is, 
with  what  might  be  a  difficulty,  if  we  had  not  seen  our  way  to 
turn  it  into  an  opportunity." 

The  old  man  was  beaming. 

"  Yes,  sir  ?  "  said  Annie,  rather  puzzled. 

"  This  precious  boy  of  yours,  not  content  with  trying  to  kill 
himself,  is  trying  to  kill  you.  Now,  if  he  kills  you,  who  is  to 
see  after  me  ?    I  can't  let  him  kill  you,  so  I  have  to  set  about 


Xtn  bas  ftis  933 

making  him  look  after  himself.  And  I  can  do  it.  Do  you 
know  how?" 

He  stopped  and  rubbed  his  fat  hands  together,  as  he  beamed 
upon  the  pair  opposite  him. 

*'  No,  sir,"  said  Annie,  rather  drearily. 

"  I  can  send  him  abroad,  and  pay  the  piper,  and  be  very 
glad  to  see  the  back  of  him." 

Lin  shook  his  head. 

"  Nonsense,  sir,"  said  he,  with  decision.  "  You're  a  brick,  I 
know,  but  already  you  have  done  more  for  me  than  I  care  to 
remember,  seeing  how  utterly  it  is  out  of  my  power  to  repay 
you.  As  to  this  going  abroad,  it  is  simply  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Thousands  of  better  men  than  I  will  have  to  stay  in 
England  this  spring  and  take  their  chance.  The  doctors 
ordered  me  away  because  they  mistook  my  position  in  this 
house." 

"Will  you  hold  your  impertinent  tongue,  sir?"  said  the 
little  old  man,  in  a  bad  imitation  of  a  fury.  "  Vou  are  nobody, 
sir;  but  your  mother's  son  must  be  looked  after  whether  he 
will  or  no.  Did  I  not  say  just  now  that  if  you  killed  your 
mother  I  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  slipshod  'general '  and  a 
drunken  charwoman  ?  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  con- 
demn me  to  that  ?  Oh  !  I'm  nearly  eighty,  but  I'm  not  done 
for  yet,  I  shall  want  a  lot  of  attention  for  some  time  to  come, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  do  me  out  of  it." 

Lin  laughed,  but  said  nothing. 

"  So  I  am  going  to  get  rid  of  you.  Never  mind  what  I  have 
done  for  you  and  what  I  have  not.  If  I  were  doing  anyone 
any  wrong — "  He  stopped  and  suddenly  became  very  serious, 
then  resumed :  "  In  a  moment  of  weakness  I  promised  my 
dear  wife  that  the  bulk  of  my  property  should  go  to  her  niece. 
I  wish  most  heartily  that  I  could  have  found  courage  to  refuse. 
But  a  promise  is  a  promise,  and  I  must  keep  mine.  Still,  in 
my  will  I  have  left  you  a  little  matter  of  two  hundred  pounds. 
I  suppose  I  can  leave  you  two  hundred  pounds,  can't  I  ?  or 
will  your  confounded  pride  kick  at  it  ?" 

"  You  are  awfully  good,  sir ;  but  if  you  had  anything  which 
you  felt  justified  in  leaving  away  from  your  own  people,  my 
mother  stands  before  me." 

"  Let  your  mother  alone,  and  don't  interfere  with  what  does 
not  concern  you.  I  am  talking  about  you.  If  you  go  on  like 
this  your  two  hundred  won't  be  any  good  to  you.  You  will 
give  it  the  slip,  and  somebody  else  will  go  on  the  spree  with  it. 
JVbw,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  can  take  you  out  of  reach  of  the 


234  Bnnic  Deane 

east  winds,  and  when  you  have  pulled  round  a  b:t  it  can  give 
you  the  chance  of  studying  under  somebody  who  will  turn  you 
out  fit  to  earn  it  all  back  again.  We  want  money  when  we  do 
want  it,  and  now  is  the  time  you  want  this,  so  I  wrote  this 
cheque  last  night,  and  here  it  is ;  and  if  you  don't  leave  off 
worrying  your  mother  into  her  grave,  I'll  wash  my  hands  of 
you  for  an  unnatural  monstrosity." 

Lin  tried  hard  to  say  something,  but  he  was  still  very  weak. 
He  could  not  find  his  voice,  and  the  fat  little  figure  opposite 
him  seemed  dancing  about  in  a  fire-lit  mist.  He  dragged  him- 
self on  to  his  feet  and  offered  the  old  man  a  thin  hand,  which 
that  little  human  fairy  accepted  with  effusion,  though  without 
words,  afterwards  discovering  that  he  had  left  his  handkerchief 
downstairs,  and  trotting  off  to  find  it,  rubbing  his  hands  all 
the  way,  and  feeling  like  a  schoolboy  as  he  thought  of  the 
h^piness  he  had  left  behind  him. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

"MR.   WARRENER" 

Lin  pulled  round  with  a  rapidity  which  surprised  everyone, 
nimself  included.  Three  weeks  after  that  talk  with  Mr.  Holt 
he  was  fit  to  travel.  His  belongings  were  collected  in  various 
heaps,  and  his  mother,  dim-eyed  and  heavy-hearted,  had  begun 
to  think  of  "packing."  For  she  and  Lin  had  never  before 
been  far  apart,  and  to  her  this  "  going  abroad  "  was  a  terrible 
thing,  fraught  with  much  danger,  and  suggestive  of  the  parting 
which  is  final.  Still,  it  was  necessary  that  Lin  should  go,  and 
as  he  was  not  only  happy,  but  eager  to  go,  she  did  her  best  to 
put  on  a  brave  front.  At  last  all  was  ready.  The  Hoskins 
had  been  up  on  the  Sunday  to  have  tea  and  to  say  good-bye,  the 
Professor  himself  had  looked  in  on  the  Monday  afternoon,  and 
had  given  Lin  two  or  three  letters  of  introduction  to  musical 
friends  of  his  own  in  the  land  of  sunny  skies  and  sweet  voices. 
Now,  on  the  Monday  night,  Annie  and  Lin  sat  together  by  his 
bedroom  fire  for  the  last  time.  To-morrow  would  find  him  on 
the  first  stage  of  his  journey. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  said  he  suddenly,  "  I  shall  spend  my 
twenty-first  birthday  away  fr.om  you." 

"Yes,  dear!" 

"  I  thought  of  that  to-day,  and  then  I  remembered  something 
that  you  once  promised  to  tell  me." 

She  sat  upright,  and  putting  one  hand  behind  her,  grasped 
her  chair  hard.     She  knew  what  that  "  something  "  was. 

"  What  was  it  about  ?  "  she  said,  turning  rather  sick. 

'  You  promised  to  tell  me  who  my  father  was." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  me  before  I  go." 

He  saw  her  shrink,  and  noticed  the  curious  distress  upon 
her  face. 

"  Not  that  it  matters,"  he  put  in  hurriedly.  ''  I  am  not 
curious,  that  I  know  of;  but  as  I  am  going  away  for  some 
time,  and  as,  if  anything  happened  to  you  (which,  God  forbid  I), 

235 


236  Bnnie  S)eane 

there  is  not  a  soul  to  tell  me  anything,  I  think  perhaps  I  ought 
to  know  what  there  is  to  know." 

"  That's  true,"  she  said ;  "  I've  thought  that  myself." 

"  But  you  don't  want  to  tell  me  ?  "  he  said  gently. 

'*  I  don't.  It  seems  strange  that  a  thing  what  everybody 
knows  should  never  have  come  to  you.  Sometimes  I've 
thought  you  guessed,  an'  that  was  why  you  didn't  ast  no 
questions." 

"  What  was  there  to  guess  ?  "  he  cried  in  surprise.  "  You 
told  me  once  that  my  father  was  a  gentleman,  and  that  you 
would  tell  me  about  him  when  I  was  older." 

"  I'd  no  business  to  ha'  told  that,"  she  said  stolidly. 
"  Haven't  anybody  ever  said  anything  about  me  to  you  ?  " 

"  In  what  way  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  they  haven't,"  she  said,  "  or  you  wouldn't  ast 
that.  My  dear,  you'd  ha'  knowed  what  there  is  to  know  a  long 
time  ago  if  it  wasn't  that  it'll  let  me  down  a  lot  lower  in  your 
eyes  than  I'd  ha'  liked  to  be." 

"  That  is  not  likely,"  said  Lin  quickly. 

"  No,  but  it  will.  I  s'pose  I've  thought  you'd  get  to  know 
yourself,  an'  it  wasn't  a  thing  as  /  could  make  you  see  when 
you  wus  jest  a  lad ;  but  everyone  as  knows  me,  dear,  knows 
that  I  wus  never  married  at  all,  although  they  knows,  too,  that 
you  are  my  son." 

Lin  felt  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him,  yet  he  instantly  knew 
himself  for  a  fool  in  that  he  had  not  understood  this  before. 
If  he  said  nothing  now  his  silence  was  not  unkindly  meant ;  he 
simply  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

"  It  do  seem  strange  that  you  should  ha'  bin  deceived," 
Annie  went  on  sadly ;  "  for  I've  never  made  no  secret  of  it. 
I  sut  myself  to  face  the  consequences  o'  this  twenty  years  ago. 
I  never  hid  nothing,  nor  deceived  nobody." 

"  But,"  urged  Lin,  very  gently,  "  you  told  me  my  father  was 
a  gentleman." 

"  Yes,  an'  I  shouldn't  ha'  done,  but  you  wus  a  child,  an'  I 
couldn't  tell  you  anything  then." 

He  gave  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  was  silent.  He  was  startled 
and  terribly  ashamed.  For  though  he  was  young,  he  had 
started  life  early,  and  lately  had  seen  a  little  of  men  and  their 
ways,  thus  seeing  a  little,  in  a  second-hand,  reflected  sort  of 
way,  of  women  and  their  ways ;  but  he  himself  had  remained 
much  the  same,  ever  leaning  by  instinct  to  that  which  was 
pure,  to  that  which  was  physically  and  mentally  and  morally — 
clean.  His  fellow-clerks  had  laughed  at  him  as  "old-fashioned," 


"  /iDr.  Marrencr  "  237 

but  had  liked  him  too,  and  somehow  had  never  attempted  to 
bring  him  "  up  to  date." 

"  Mother,"  he  said  presently,  "  who  was  the  man  ?  " 

She  started,  so  lost  in  thought  was  she. 

"  IVko,  dear  ?  "  she  asked  stupidly. 

"  Yes  !  Who  ?  "  Lin's  face  was  growing  sterner.  "  A  man 
may  have  a  wife  and  child  according  to  law,  or  a  wife  and  child 
nof  according  to  law.  In  either  case  the  child  is  ^is.  The 
mere  fact  of  his  turning  his  back  upon  it  can't  make  it  less  so, 
can  it  ?  " 

"  No ! "  she  said  quietly. 

"  Before  God  and  his  conscience  he  knows  that,  doesn't 
he?" 

"  Yes  !  "  said  she,  quietly  still. 

"Tell  me  something  of  this  man  who  was  my  father. 
Knowing  you  as  /  know  you,  I  want  to  know  how  any  man 
dared  to  do  you  such  a  ghastly  wrong.  You  were  always  a 
trusting  soul.     He  promised  you — " 

"Lin,"  she  said,  in  hot  haste,  "he  never  did.  God  forgive 
him  an'  me,  too.  I  was  a  foolish  child,  an'  he  wasn't  much 
better,  as  a  man's  age  goes." 

"  What  age  was  he  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  she  faltered  j  "  p'r'aps  as  old  as 
you — " 

"  Oh,  then,  he  was  noi  a  child,  *  even  as  a  man's  age  goes.' 
He  was  a  man,  who  knew  what  he  was  doing ;  that  is,  he  ruined 
an  innocent  girl  for  his  own  devilish  pleasure,  and  made  her  no 
amends.  Well,  that  is  how  it  seems  to  be  to  me.  Perhaps  I 
am  wrong,  and  he  did  make  amends.  What  did  he  do  for 
you?" 

Her  face  was  white  and  her  lips  a-twitch. 

"  He  had  to  go  away,"  she  said  bravely. 

'*  Did  he  come  back  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  He  went  clean  away  and  left  you  to  face  the  consequences 
of  his  sin  single-handed  ?  " 

"  It  was  my  sin,  too." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  Ae  went  away  for  good  ?  " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Knowing  everything  ?  " 

"  No,  he  didn't  know — nothing." 

"  But,  but,  when  you  knew,  surely  you  wrote  and  told 
him  ?  " 

"  No ! " 


238  annle  Deanc 

Lin  rose  and  stood  leaning  on  the  bed-rail,  watching  hi& 
mother  earnestly. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  it  doesn't  matter — now." 

"  I  think  it  does.  When  once  we  have  closed  this  discussion 
I  promise  you  never  to  reopen  it ;  but  now  I  want  to  know  what 
sort  of  man  this  was.     Why  did  you  never  write  to  him  ?  " 

"  Because  I  didn't  know  where  to  find  him." 

Liu's  hand,  as  it  grasped  the  rail,  shook  like  a  leaf. 

"  I  knew  it ! "  he  said.  *'  He  ruined  you  and  got  clear  away. 
What  was  his  name  ?  " 

« I— didn't— know." 

"  You  don't  know  now  ?  " 

She  wished  most  heartily  that  she  could  have  said  she  did 
not. 

"  I've  found  out  since  by  accident." 

"  But  you  have  never  heard  from  him  ?" 

"  Never.  You  see,  I  come  right  away  from  home  here,  an* 
if  he'd  gone  back  ever  so,  I  should  ha'  bin  none  the  wiser. 
He  may  have  gone  back,  I  can't  say." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  trouble,"  Lin  said,  with  a  quiet 
sneer.  "  It  is  safe  to  presume  that  he  never  did  go  back. 
What  made  you  come  to  London  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  try  an'  find  him,"  she  answered  simply.  "  I 
had  a  portrait  of  him,  with  the  name  on  it  of  the  man  what 
took  it." 

"  And  you  came  here  with  no  other  clue  to  him  than  that  ?  " 

"  No  other,"  she  answered,  with  a  dreary  impatience  of  this 
inquisition ;  "  an'  that  was  no  good." 

Lin  stood  looking  before  him  into  vacancy.  The  blank 
misery,  the  shameful  sin  of  the  thing  was  dawning  upon  him 
slowly — a  revelation  of  humanity's  darker  side  from  which  he 
shrank,  as  anything  young  and  hopeful  well  might. 

"  Good  God  ! "  he  burst  out  suddenly. 

"  My  dear  ! "  said  she,  in  loving  reproof. 

"Well,  I  say  it  in  surprise,  for  I  never  thought  that  He 
could  make  a  man  quite  as  bad  as  that !  I  suppose,  after  all, 
there  is  a  devil,  and  he  had  a  hand  in  him  ! " 

She  rose  quickly,  ready  even  at  that  distance  of  time  to 
stand  up  loyally  in  his  defence.  Whatever  he  might  seem  to 
others,  he  could  never  seem  wholly  bad  to  her. 

*'  Lin,  he  wasn't  what  you  think,  an'  I  can't  let  you  judge 
him.  I've  never  done  that,  nor  you  mustn't  neither.  God 
made  us  all,  an'  some  of  us  makes  mistakes.     /  made  one,  an* 


"flDr.  "CQlarrener"  a39 

that  wus  one  as  most  people  would  say  stamped  me  as  good 
for  nothink.  Would  you  stan'  to  hear  me  condemned  by 
some  one  as  didn't  know  me  ?  " 

•*  You  know  I  wouldn't." 

"  Then  I  can't  hear  him  condemned  by  some  one  as  didn't 
know  him.  He'd  never  ha'  hurt  me  for  sheer  cruelty;  it 
wusn't  in  him,  Lin,  any  more  than  it  is  in  you." 

"  He  turned  his  back  upon  you  and  slunk  away  ! " 

"  Ah,  you  see,"  she  said,  fatally  clinching  the  matter  in  her 
eagerness,  "  he  believed  I  wus  to  be  taken  good  care  of — I  wus 
to  have  married  Jim  Drake." 

At  this  Lin's  very  physical  powers  forsook  him.  He  put 
out  his  other  hand,  standing  like  one  upon  a  cross,  grasping 
the  brass  rail  of  the  bed.  White  as  a  sheet  he  was  with  passion, 
and  pain,  and  disgust.     Annie  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  said.  "You're  ill.  I'd  no 
business  to  have  told  you  this  to-night.  I  ought  to  have  known 
that  you  wusn't  strong  enough  to  stand  it." 

He  resisted  her  efforts  to  draw  him  away  from  the  bed, 
only  shook  his  head,  and  avoided  her  pleading  eyes. 

"  /  wish  you  hadn't  told  me,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  isn't 
pleasant  hearing.  Mother,  did  you  think  it  natural  for  ihat 
man  to  leave  you  to  the  care  of  another  man  ?  You  thoi  ght 
the  better  of  him  for  his  kind — consideration  for  you  ?  " 

She  turned  her  back  upon  Lin,  and  did  not  speak.  He  laid 
a  shaking  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Mother  ! " 

She  saw  then  what  he  meant,  and  burst  into  tears.  With 
her  own  lips  she  had  hopelessly  condemned  him  ! 

"It  was  so  just,"  said  Lin  bitterly,  "so  manly  to  the — other 
man  !  No,  mother ;  your  idol  was  a  devil,  and  a  coward,  and 
a  cur ! " 

**  Lin,  my  Lin,  I  loved  him  ! " 

"  That  was  a  hideous  puzzle — a  sort  of  attraction  to  the 
opposite  !      That  you,  who  must  always  have  been  good — " 

"  No ;  I  wus  no  better  than  him.  If  I've  ever  got  near  to 
bein'  better  since,  it  wus  becos'  o'  that  love  I  had  for  him  an* 
for  you.  I've  tried  to  atone  for  the  wrong  I  done,  as  much  for 
his  sake  as  my  own.  So,"  she  went  on  firmly,  "  I've  got  to 
say  to  you — that  I  can't  hear  nothink  agenst  him,  an'  I  won't. 
He  brought  me  harm,  an'  he  brought  me  good,  too.  He  made 
me  patient,  an'  forgivin',  an'  learnt  me  to  show  mercy  to  all 
things  as  I  hope  for  mercy  myself.  I'm  a  better  woman  now 
than  ever  I'd  ha'  bin  if  I'd  never  ha'  knowed  him." 


840  Bnnte  Z)eane 

"No  thanks  to  him,"  said  Lin  sternly;  "and  what  about 
me  ?  I  shall  think  a  lot  of  myself  henceforth  !  It  is  com- 
forting to  reflect  that  one  owes  one's  life  to  such  a  man  as  he  1 
Am  I  anything  like  him  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  said  shiftily,  "  sometimes.  Nobody'd  notice 
that  but  me." 

"  If  I  am,  I  wonder  you  have  not  hated  me !  It  would 
make  me  hate  myself." 

She  turned,  and  going  close  to  him,  laid  her  face  against 
his. 

"  My  darlin*,  I  loved  you  all  the  better  for  it.  I've  never 
harboured  a  hard  thought  of  him ;  an'  if  I  thought  you  did, 
it'd  make  me  unhappy.  For  love  o'  me,  if  you  can  think  me 
worth  loving,  you  must  promise  me  not  to  hate  him." 

"  I'm  not  a  saint,  mother." 

"No,  dear;  but  you  must  forgive  him  like  you've  forgive 
me." 

"  You  !  What  connection  is  there  ?  what  comparison  in  your 
ideas  of  duty  and  his  ?  You  have  been  a  slave  to  me !  To 
talk  of  forgiving  you  is  impertinence." 

"  You  see,"  she  urged  earnestly,  "it  wus  so  diff'rent  1  There 
wtts  no  comparison;  you  can't  make  it.  1  wus  an  ignorant 
country  girl,  an'  he,  as  I  told  you,  wus  a  gentleman." 

"  No,  mother,"  interposed  Lin  sternly ;  "  whatever  else  he 
may  have  been,  to  a  dead  certainty  he  was  not  that ;  or,  if  he 
were,  then  may  I  steer  clear  of  gentlemen  for  the  rest  of  my 
life ! " 

"  There  wus  a  great  difference,"  she  went  on  unheeding. 
"  I've  thought  of  it  many  a  time.  Say  as  he'd  married  me, 
why,  I'd  just  ha'  bin  a  fish  out  o'  water ;  an',  my  dear,  1  should 
ha'  ruined  him  worse  than  he  ruined  me." 

"  That  is  no  excuse.  The  fact  of  his  being  what  you  say  he 
was  only  proves  his  utter  worthlessness.  He  was  a  man  of 
good  birth  (truly  there  is  a  lot  in  that  !\  of  education  (there 
would  seem  to  be  a  lot  in  that,  too  !),  of  cultivated  tastes  and 
sharpened  sense  of  what  is  right  and  wrong.  And  yet  all  these 
advantages  led  him  to  nothing  higher  than  the  ruin  of  a  child  ! 
His  sense  of  gentlemanhood  was  so  keen  that  it  allowed  him 
to  leave  you  to  face  your  ruined  life,  and  to  hide  his  share  in 
it  under  the  name  of  an  innocent  man.  Oh,  mother,  I  have 
lost  something  to-night  that  I  shall  never  get  back  !  I  had  no 
idea  that  civilised  man  could  sink  so  low.  And  then,  to  think 
that  I  belong  to  him  !  " 

Annie  sobbed  piteously. 


"/©c.  Marcenec"  241 

••  No,  though,"  Lin  went  on  thoughtfully,  after  a  pause,  "  I 
do  not  belong  to  him.  In  the  eyes  of  the  law  I  have  no 
father.     For  that  I  can  be  thankful ! " 

Moved  by  a  sudden,  pitying  impulse,  he  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  his  mother's  white  face.  It  was  no  part  of  his  duty  to 
stand  aloof  from  her. 

"  I'll  be  content  with  you,"  he  said  gently,  "  for  you  have 
made  up  for  him  to  me." 

"  My  dear,  I've  tried.  An'  you  must  learn  to  forgive  him 
too.  For  he  wusn't  what  you  thinks  him,  as  some  day  you'll 
find  out.  He  didn't  know^  or  he'd  ha'  come  back.  An' 
besides,  he  left  me  some — some  money." 

"  How  much  money  ?  " 

"Five  pound.  It  was  a  great  help  to  me;  but  for  it  I 
might  ha'  stopped  an'  married  Jim.  Thank  God,  it  let  me 
get  away  from  that  I " 

"  Five  pounds  ! "  said  Lin  wearily.  In  truth,  he  was  weary, 
for  weakness  and  agitation  had  mastered  him.  "  Five  pounds  ! 
Well,  mother,  some  day  we  will  send  that  money  back  with 
interest  and — thanks.  But  until  we  can,  I  will  do  my  best  to 
forget  what  you  have  told  me.  For  if  I  think  about  it  I  shall 
have  to  make  you  tell  me  that  man's  name,  and  perhaps  it  is 
better  that  I  should  not  know  it." 

Annie  kissed  him,  unclasped  his  hands  from  the  bed-rail, 
and  drew  him  over  to  a  chair. 

"  I've  done  you  a  lot  of  harm,"  she  said  ;  "  you  shake  like  a 
leaf,  an'  you're  as  white  as  a  ghost !  You  wusn't  strong  enough 
to  bear  it.     You'll  scarce  be  fit  to  go  to-morrow." 

He  smiled  at  her  anxious  face,  and  went  off  into  deep 
thought.  He  started  up  after  a  while,  and  began  to  pace  the 
room. 

"  There  is  a  name  to  be  put  on  my  belongings  yet,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  return  to  his  own  manner.  "Don't  think  I 
mean  to  be  unkind,  dear,  for  indeed  I  don't,  but — I  am  going 
to  start  a  name  of  my  own.  If  I  should  stumble  upon  /lis,  you 
can  tell  me,  and  I'll  drop  it." 

"  Why  not  mine,  dear  ?  "  she  said  wistfully  ;  "  it's  yours — 
you  wus  christened  by  it.     Are  you  ashamed  of  it  ?  " 

"  No.  But  if  you  don't  mind,  I  will  start  afresh  with  some- 
thing quite  different.  Many  professionals  find  it  convenient 
to  adopt  names  other  than  their  own.  I  shall  only  be  follow- 
ing their  lead.  On  the  day  I  left  the  Schools  to  go  to 
Staniforth's  there  was  a  little  chap  died  in  the  Infirmary.  He 
was  awfully  fond  of  me.     He  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  world,  and 

o 


24*  Hnnie  Deanc 

his  name  was  Warrener.  With  your  consent,  mother,  my 
name  shall  be  Warrener,  too." 

She  looked  a  trifle  hurt  and  disappointed,  but  she  offered 
Lin  no  opposition. 

So  the  next  day  "  Mr.  Warrener "  and  his  luggage  went 
southward,  and  deep  quiet  settled  down  upon  the  house  in 
Merryon  Square. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"in  a  kingdom  by  the  sea" 

As  the  summer  passed,  and  then  the  autumn,  Annie  grew 
accustomed  to  the  thought  of  the  great  distance  between  Lin 
and  herself,  and,  growing  accustomed,  ceased  to  fret  about  it. 
He  wrote  regularly  and  hopefully,  told  her  what  he  was  doing 
and  how  he  did  it,  nor  ever  failed  to  show,  by  means  of  kindly 
consideration  and  affectionate  phrase,  how  closely  she  was 
connected  with  all  his  hopes  and  aspirations,  and  that  in  all  his 
happy  air-castles  she  had  her  own  special  apartment.  She 
treasured  his  letters,  reading  them  over  and  over,  each  time 
finding  out  something  she  had  missed  before,  or  understanding 
some  little  phrase  which  had  hitherto  puzzled  her. 

Concerning  their  conversation  on  the  night  before  he  left 
England,  Lin  was  quite  silent,  nor  could  Annie  find  in  any  of 
his  letters  the  faintest  trace  of  his  having  remembered  it. 
Sometimes  she  found  herself  doubting  whether  she  had 
actually  told  him,  or  whether  it  was  all  a  dream. 

"  There's  one  bit  o'  likeness  between  him  an'  me,"  she  would 
say  to  herself,  "  he  can  keep  a  thing  to  hisself,  if  he  says  he 
will." 

Just  after  Christmas  she  had  a  letter  from  the  Italian  city 
where  Lin  had  for  the  present  settled  down  to  study  under  an 
old  friend  of  the  Professor's. 

"  A  very  happy  Christmas,"  he  wrote,  "  in  spite  of  unfamiliar 
surroundings.  A  night  or  two  before  I  had  a  delightful 
experience,  which  has  made  such  an  impression  on  me  that  I 
shall  have  to  tell  you  aoout  it.  The  three  fellows  who  are 
staying  in  the  same  house  with  me  came  in  full  of  news.  They 
are  all  English,  as  I  think  I  have  told  you,  and  very  jolly  at 
that ;  but  the  beggars  don't  work  much,  and  they  make  a  lot  of 
fun  of  me  for  being  in  such  dead  earnest.  You  see,  they  don't 
know,  and  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  telling  them.  Anyhow, 
they  were  full  of  spirits ;  they  came  and  upset  my  shanty,  put 
a  cat  and  two  kittens  inside  the  piano,  and  kicked  up  a  fearful 

243 


a44  Bnnic  Deanc 

riot,  all  because  there  was  to  be  a  concert  in  aid  of  the  English 
charities  here,  and  our  own  Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  passing 
through  here  on  his  way  to  London,  had  consented  to  break 
his  journey  North,  and  to  give  his  services.  This  meant  a 
crowd,  and  the  prices  went  up  to  anything ;  but  we  made  up 
our  minds  to  ruin  ourselves  and  pay,  if  it  were  only  for 
standing-room.  So  we  put  on  our  overcoats,  turned  up  our 
collars,  and  stood  patiently  stamping  our  feet  in  the  cold. 
(Perhaps  you  think  it  can't  be  cold  here,  but  that  is  a  delusion.) 
Then  we  fought  our  way  up  the  stairs,  and  getting  seats,  sat  us 
down  to  shiver  in  a  marble  desolation.  Now  I  have  set  your 
heart  beating  in  double-quick  time,  but  indeed  there  is  no 
delicacy  about  me;  I  am  thoroughly  strong  and  well.  The 
place  was  crammed,  and  the  row — I  mean  enthusiasm — some- 
thing tremendous.  But  the  funniest  thing  out  was  that  even 
the  two  titled  lady-amateurs,  and  the  other  Britishers  who  had 
elected  to  distinguish  themselves,  elected  to  do  so  in  Italian. 
We  admired  their  pluck,  and  marvelled  at  it,  but  it  left  the 
success  of  the  whole  thing  to  some  one  who  came  on  about 
midway  down  the  programme.  I  had  never  heard  Mr. 
Le  Quesne  sing.  I  expected  a  great  deal,  but,  by  George,  I 
was  not  disappointed.  I  don't  know  that  it  was  his  voice 
altogether,  but  he  himself  did  thoroughly  fascinate  me ! 
After  all  the  '  natives,'  with  their  endless  bowing,  gesticulating, 
and  fire-working ;  after  the  distinguished  amateurs,  with  their 
imitation  of  the  aforesaid,  and  their  remarkable  mixture  of 
nervousness  and  foolhardiness,  his  graceful  presence,  and  his 
pure,  unaffected  voice  came  like  a  breath  of  home.  One  might 
not  have  thought  much  of  it  in  London,  but  here,  where 
everything  is  so  strange  and  un-English,  it  was  simply 
electrifying !  A  bit  of  a  slenderly-built  Englishman,  he 
seemed  to  us  to  embody  all  that  is  best  in  manhood  and 
in  nationality.  With  everything  showy  open  to  him,  he  yet 
chose  a  simple  English  song ;  and  if  I  were  to  try  to  tell  you 
the  effect  it  had  upon  everyone,  I  should  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  remember  those  opening  words,  sung 
in  that  most  impressive  of  silences — the  silence  of  a  listening 
crowd — 


i«  ( 


It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago,  in  a  kingdom  by  the  sea.' 


**  I  held  my  breath,  while  something  like  a  cold  shiver  ran 
through  my  hair  and  down  my  backbone.  O'Brien — an 
Irishman,  and  a  bit  of  a  devil,  but  a  real  good  sort  at  bottom 
— turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  sat  like  a  figure  of  stone. 


**5n  a  l{fngt)om  J)^  tbe  Sea"  94s 

Harvey — a  bit  of  a  dandy,  who  makes  a  point  of  sneering  at 
everything — suddenly  lost  something  on  the  floor,  and  bent 
down  ever  so  long  looking  for  it.  Otway  screwed  up  his 
eye-glass,  and  glared  at  the  great  chandelier.  But  the  feeling 
in  each  one  of  us  was  the  same.  If  we  had  never  known 
ourselves  before  for  the  sons  of  that  'kingdom  by  the  sea,' 
never  felt  what  it  was  to  be  passionately  proud  of  it,  we 
knew  now,  and  it  was  worth  while  being  enlightened.  We 
all,  so  to  speak,  wrapped  ourselves  in  our  Union  Jack,  and 
looked  down  on  every  man  who  was  not  a  Britisher !  But 
British,  or  Italian,  or  French,  or  what  not,  everybody  present 
feU  that  voice  of  our  great  singer's,  and  made  no  secret  of 
such  feeling.  Not  that  ke  could  have  wanted  telling,  though, 
for  he  knew — knew  that  he  held  that  vast  crowd  in  front  of  him 
just  as  easily,  just  as  sensitively,  as  a  boy  holds  a  flying  kite. 
And  the  voice  itself  is  perfect,  as  soft  as  velvet,  and  as  clear  as 
a  silver  bell,  never  missing  a  word,  or  slurring  one  over,  or 
sacrificing  truth  to  mere  effect.  It  was  a  lesson  in  sincerity  as 
well  as  in  sindng.  Even  the  idiots  who  sometimes  spoil  a 
thing  by  applauding  between  the  verses  were  silent,  shut  up  by 
the  marvellous  echo  of  the  last  word.     When  he  began  again — 

•'  *  She  was  a  child  and  I  was  a  child,  in  our  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 

And  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love,  I  and  my  Annabe 
Lee' — 

I  saw  the  tears  drop  down  on  O'Brien's  coat-collar,  and  I  was 
not  surprised,  for  I  could  have  cried  myself.  O'Brien  told  me 
afterwards  that  it  took  him  back  among  the  misty  green  hills 
at  home,  back  to  the  days  when  a  little  Irish  girl  had  loved 
him,  and  made  him,  as  he  said,  unconsciously  quoting  David 
Copperfield,  'more  fit  for  Heaven  than  ever  he  had  been 
since ! ' 

"  Well,  I  sat  that  song  out,  listening  as  I  have  never  listened 
before,  and  as  I  never  expect  to  listen  again.  It  was  a 
revelation  to  me  of  much  in  myself  and  others  of  the  existence 
of  which  I  had  not  known.  It  was  finished  as  perfectly  as  it 
had  been  begun.  The  trick  of  using  a  high  note  at  the  end 
for  the  sake  of  effect  the  singer  disdained ;  his  voice  dropped 
down  and  died  away  quite  naturally. 

"  And  what  a  tumult  there  was  !  He  responded  with  the 
little  *  Donna  e  Mobile,'  known  to  you  as  '  Fair  shines  the 
moon  to-night,'  and  then  he  was  gone,  taking  every  scrap  of 
intelligence  we  fellows  had  away  with  him.     With  one  accord, 


246  Bnnfe  Z)eane 

all  the  British  youth  in  the  city  (students  and  loungers  alike) 
took  leave  of  sense  and  delivered  itself  over  to  enthusiasm: 

"  We  learned  that  Mr.  Le  Quesne  was  to  leave  by  the  mid- 
night train,  so  we  all  marched  to  the  station,  waited  for  him, 
and  gave  him  three  British  cheers  loud  enough  to  deafen  him. 
I  know  my  throat  ached  and  my  ears  rang  for  an  hour  ! 

"  He  had  but  a  minute  or  so,  and  seemed  completely  taken 
by  surprise ;  but  he  stood  at  the  carriage  window  bare-headed, 
shouted  us  '  A  Happy  Christmas,'  said  he  heartily  wished  he 
were  a  youngster  again  and  one  of  us,  and  that  the  sound  of 
our  British  voices  would  echo  gratefully  in  his  ears  all  the  way — 
he  was  going  to  say  *  home,'  but  pulled  himself  up  and 
substituted  *  to  London.' 

"  Those  of  our  number  who  were  near  enough  got  a  hearty 
shake  of  the  hand.     /  had  one,  and  I  was  proud  of  it. 

"  When  we  had  all  had  time  to  cool  down,  I  think  we  felt  a 
bit  ashamed  of  the  exhibition  we  had  made  of  ourselves ;  but  it 
was  a  memorable  occasion,  and  I  am  sure  Lindsay  Le  Quesne 
is  a  brick  !  By  the  way,  I  like  to  know  that  you  understand 
my  ravings,  and  you  may  not  recognise  his  name  by  seeing  it ; 
but  you  used  to  hear  us  talk  of  him  as  '  Lindsay  Le  Quain.' " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry,  and  the  sheets  of  thin 
paper  fluttered  to  the  ground.  The  thing  she  had  hoped  for, 
prayed  for,  dreading  it  all  the  while,  had  happened  !  Lin  and 
he  had  met,  had  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  had  grasped  each 
other  by  the  hand  in  all  kindness — in  something  more  than 
charity ! 

Annie  smiled  as  she  thought  of  the  white-faced  lad  who, 
standing  that  night  by  the  rail  of  his  bed,  had  burst  out 
brokenly : 

♦'  Did  God  ever  make  a  man  quite  as  bad  as  that  ?  " 

And  now  ?  She  took  Lin's  happy  letter,  and  resumed  her 
reading,  quite  sure  that  all  was  right. 

"  I  nearly  ruined  things  with  my  muddlin',"  she  said. 
"Thank  God,  I  kep'  his  name  to  myself.  It's  all  comin' 
round.  I  can  just  stan'  by  an'  see  a  surer  Hand  than  mine 
bring  them  two  together.  They'll  know  each  other  without 
any  help  o'  mine,  an'  Lin  will  find  out  for  hisself  that  what  I 
says  is  true.  There's  a  lot  o'  good  in  him — oh,  a  lot  o'  good ! 
— as  there  is  in  us  all.  Yes,  he  must  find  that  out  for  hisself, 
an'  the  rest  '11  follow.  If  he  kncwed  that  name  first,  it 
woi'ld  spoil  everything,  for  somehow  I  think  as  Lin  is 
slow  to  forgive.  All  them  four  years  in  that  office  he  didn't 
.  forgive  ot«7" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"giving  place  unto  the  new" 

One  evening,  late  in  the  following  summer,  Annie  stood  on 
the  platform  of  Charing  Cross  Station  waiting  for  the  train 
which  was  bringing  Lin  home.  While  she  waited,  joyful 
expectation  was  so  mingled  with  shyness  and  dread  that  she 
had  much  to  do  to  keep  from  crying. 

Lin's  later  letters  were  largely  to  blame  for  this.  In  spite  of 
their  frank  affection,  there  was  in  them  a  certain  tone  of  self- 
reliance,  of  "emancipation,"  that  told  his  mother  he  was 
coming  home  full  of  his  own  future,  which  was  to  be  spent 
in  his  own  way.  This  seemed  to  take  him  beyond  her — to 
leave  her  in  the  background.  Also,  his  letters  had  altered  in 
another  way,  that  she  could  feel,  but  could  not  quite  explain. 
She  saw  that  Lin  had  found  his  level  among  congenial  people, 
and  was  beginning  to  understand  his  own  value,  which,  from 
his  point  of  view,  was  entirely  satisfactory,  but  from  hers,  a 
trifle  humiHating. 

"  He's  Mr.  Warrener  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  stood 
on  that  busy  platform,  "an',  by  the  way  he  writes,  he  feels 
pretty  certain  of  doin'  well.  I  must  expect  to  find  him  altered, 
an'  I  mustn't  be  down-hearted  if  he  is. " 

But  as  that  train  steamed  in  she  could  not  see  it  for  tears, 
and  the  scurrying  mass  of  people  were  but  one  misty  blot, 
which  she  had  not  reduced  to  order  when  she  felt  her  face 
flattened  against  Lin's  shoulder,  and  knew  that  her  prim  little 
bonnet  was  all  awry. 

At  any  rate,  thought  she,  his  happy  laugh  was  quite 
unaltered,  and — yes,  so  were  his  eyes.  Having  settled  which, 
she  permitted  herself  to  be  placed  against  a  lamp-post. 

"  You  stay  there,"  said  Lin,  "  while  I  look  up  my  traps." 

The  traps  were  found,  and  Annie,  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes 
and  an  unusual  flush  on  her  cheeks,  watched  the  owner  of  the 
said  traps  as  he  shook  hands  with  three  other  fellows,  who 
were  evidently  chaffing  him  as  they  glanced  in  her  direction. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Lin,  as  he  rejoined  her  and  put 

347 


248  annfc  Dcanc 

his  arm  through  hers.  "  Tlie  beggars  refused  to  beh'eve  that 
you  were  my  mother.  I  had  no  end  of  a  bother  to  stop 
O'Brien  from  coming  to  find  out  for  himself.  I  shouldn't  have 
tried,  but  I  knew  three  strange  fellows  would  have  frightened 
you  out  of  your  wits." 

"Why  didn't  they  believe  it,  dear?"  said  she,  sensitively 
afraid  of  not  looking  good  enough. 

•'  They  said  you  were  a  lot  too  pretty,  and  ever  so  much  too 
young." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  in  reproof,  thinking  what  a  good- 
looking,  gentlemanly  fellow  he  was,  and  how  like,  how  very 
like  to  some  one  else. 

"  How  is  the  dear  old  man  ?  You  said  you  were  afraid  I 
should  see  a  difference  in  him." 

"  Yes,  he  is  gettin'  feeble,  he  calls  it  lazy ;  but  his  mind's 
quite  clear.  He's  bin  so  afraid  that  you  wasn't  livin'  as  you 
ought  to  live,  for  want  o'  money." 

*'  On  the  contrary,  I  have  a  very  respectable  remnant  of  my 
*  legacy  *  left.  Money  goes  farther  over  there  than  it  does  here. 
Oh,  you  quiet,  stay-at-home  small  person,  won't  I  take  you 
about  if  I  ever  manage  to  earn  anything  decent  !  Now,  here 
we  are ;  we  shall  have  to  put  up  with  a  *  growler,'  because  of 
the  luggage." 

Mr.  Holt  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steps  of  No.  19,  and 
commenced  to  wave  his  big  silk  handkerchief  as  soon  as  the 
"  growler  "  came  in  sight. 

"  Here  you  are  ! "  cried  he,  as  Lin  sprang  out,  "here  you  are 
at  last !  Why,  good  gracious  !  Why,  dear  me  !  dear  me ! 
you've  grown  like  any  boy  at  school !  Eh  ?  The  effect  of  the 
Italian  air,  is  it?  What  a  pity  I  didn't  go  to  Italy  in  i7iy 
youth!  It  might  have  made  w^  grow !  Where's  your  mother ? 
Oh,  here  she  is  !  Well,  now  you've  got  him  home  again,  wliat 
do  you  think  of  him  ?  Looks  delicate,  doesn't  he  ?  Looks 
consumptive  or  asthmatical,  or  something  of  that  sort,  no 
doubt.  Dear  me,  what  a  state  she  has  been  in  because  she 
has  been  sure  that  the  country  where  organ-grinders  grow  wild 
would  not  agree  with  you  !  She's  heard  that  they  eat  nothing 
but  onions,  and  drink  nothing  but  olive  oil,  and  she  was  sure 
you  wouldn't  do  either  to  save  your  life !  And  he's  grown 
a  moustache,  too  !  That's  for  the  girls,  Emma,"  with  a  wicked 
little  wink.  "  Depend  upon  it,  he  grew  that  for  the  benefit  of 
the  girls.  Well,  well,  we're  only  young  once,  and  we've  got  to 
make  the  best  of  it." 

Whereupon,  having  shaken  Lin's  hands  until  his  fat  little 


**<Bit>lna  place  unto  tbe  "Kew"         249 

shoulders  ached,  and  he  was  quite  out  of  breath,  he  toddled 
into  the  dining-room  and  sank  into  a  chair,  telling  Lin  solemnly 
that  it  was  his  intention  to  lose  no  time  in  consulting  a 
specialist  on  the  subject  of  his  own  premature  decay. 

Lin  laughed  again,  and  hoped  in  all  sincerity  that  he  might 
live  to  be  a  hundred  ! 

That  mention  of  "girls"  was  quite  enough  to  set  Annie's 
heart  beating  in  dread. 

"  That  would  be  the  next  trouble,"  she  thought ;  "  Lin  was 
nearly  twenty-three  I " 

She  soon  saw,  however,  that  Lin's  head  was  not  running 
upon  engagements  of  the  matrimonial  order,  but  upon 
engagements  of  quite  a  different  sort. 

He  had  come  home  full  of  health  and  vigour,  ready  to  take 
his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  to  shoulder  his  way  as  near  to  the 
front  as  his  natural  gifts  and  their  newly-acquired  cultivation 
would  let  him. 

The  day  after  his  return  he  reported  himself  to  the  Professor, 
who  personally  presented  him  to  several  people  likely  to  be  of 
service.  As  a  result  of  which,  Lin  was  fairly  started  in  the 
ranks  of  professional  singers,  and  having  obtained  a  public 
hearing,  was  passed  up  as  one  who  was  likely  to  get  on. 

If  Annie  had  looked  forward  to  his  being  home  for  long,  she 
soon  had  to  abandon  any  such  idea.  Barely  a  fortnight  had 
passed  when  a  telegram  summoned  him  to  his  agents,  and 
when  he  returned  to  Merryon  Square  it  was  to  announce  that 
his  "  traps  "  must  be  packed  for  a  longish  journey  on  the 
morrow. 

"  I'm  off  on  a  nine  weeks'  tour  through  the  provinces,"  said 
he  jubilantly.  "  Really  a  stroke  of  luck !  With  a  real  live 
prima-donna  and  a  first-class  concert  party.  '  Madame's '  tenor 
has  broken  down.  I'm  sorry  for  him,  but  I  hope  he  will 
remember  the  eld  proverb  about  the  ill  wind.  Madame  hen^elf 
was  in  Bond  Street,  and  interviewed  me.  She's  a  funny  little 
Austrian,  with  heavenly  eyes  and  a  dark  moustache.  She 
called  me  *  Vorreener,'  and  said  my  voice  was  *  Ah,  so  moche 
too  nice  ! '  I  thought  at  first  she  meant  it  sarcastically,  but  she 
didn't — she  was  guileless.  I  shall  adore  Madame,  I  know  I 
shall." 

"  Isn't  she  married  ?  "  asked  Annie  faintly. 

"Yes,  to  a  Frenchman.  Berton  tells  me  that  Madame 
never  takes  him  on  tour,  though ;  he  stays  behind  to  attend  to 
her  domestic  menagerie  and  the  conservatories." 

"  How  old  is  she  ?  " 


aso  Hnnfe  Beane 

Lin  burst  out  laughing. 

"Older  than  you  are,  mother  mine.  She  has  a  daughter 
nearly  twenty,  who  travels  with  us  as  solo  violin." 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  "  asked  Annie,  in  despair.  Of  course,  the 
daughter  was  a  certainty  ! 

"^  I  don't  know.  But  when  I  get  away  I  will  forward  you  my 
impressions  of  everybody  and  everything." 

He  forwarded  his  impressions,  which  seemed  to  his  mother 
to  be  much  too  favourable,  as  indeed  they  were,  to  be  deep. 
Everything  was  rose-coloured  to  Lin  just  then,  and  Annie  soon 
grew  accustomed  to  his  extravagantly  happy  letters.  Also  she 
grew  to  regard  them  as  frivolous,  and  began  to  fear  that  he 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  Philistines,  who  must  perforce  corrupt 
him.  Her  narrow  education  and  narrower  experience  had 
cramped  her  sympathies,  in  all  save  one  direction.  But  for 
that  she  might  have  developed  into  one  of  those  objectionable 
people  who  are  firstly-religious,  lastly-religious,  intermediately- 
religious,  and  most  w«-Christian.  But  the  thought  of  that  man 
who  was  a  sinner,  the  intense  love  for  him  which  all  those 
years  had  not  destroyed  in  her,  the  firm  belief  that  he  must 
yet  be  something  to  her,  and  she  something  to  him,  the 
burning  desire  to  atone  for  his  sin  with  her  own — this 
humanised  her,  made  her  merciful,  and  tolerant  of  many  things 
which  she  would  otherwise  have  felt  it  her  duty  to  condemn. 
Even  now  she  felt  that  it  must  be  scarcely  less  than  sinful  to 
pass  one's  life  in  ministering  to  the  mere  amusement  of  other 
people.  To  her  a  theatre  was  a  bad  place.  Concert-going 
might  be  a  shade  or  two  ahead  of  theatre-going,  but  for  life  to 
be  all  concert-going  was  surely  wrong.  If  Lin  were  wrong, 
then  was  it  clearly  her  duty  to  warn  him.  She  straightway  sat 
down  and  wrote  him  her  fears  on  the  subject. 

Lin's  answer  was  temperate  to  a  degree. 

"I  am  sorry  this  is  a  trouble  to  you,"  he  wrote,  "but  I 
understand  how  you  feel  about  it.  Yes,  we  do  professedly 
devote  ourselves  to  other  people's  amusement,  and,  as  long  as 
people  demand  to  be  amused,  so  long  should  it  be  the  study 
of  somebody  to  provide  amusement  of  the  kind  which  shall 
lift  them  up  instead  of  letting  them  down.  Besides,  music  is 
something  better  than  an  amusement  to  those  who  love  her. 
I  wish  you  would  try  to  set  aside  your  prejudice,  and  to  look 
at  the  thing  fairly.  Would  you  banish  music  from  the 
churches?  Of  course  not.  Then  why  should  music  be  all 
that  is  good  in  a  church,  and  all  that  is  bad  in  a  concert-room  ? 
No  j  1  know.    You  have  the  '  pleasure '  of  the  thing  on  your 


"Olvim  place  unto  tbe  IPlcw"  asi 

brain,  the  absence  of  the  element  of  'work.'  I  spend  my  days 
in  idleness.  Now,  how  shall  I  make  you  see  that  I  don't  do 
anything  of  the  kind  ?  that  my  heart  is  in  my  profession,  and 
that  in  consequence  I  am  working  quite  as  earnestly  as,  and 
far  more  conscientiously  than,  I  have  ever  worked  in  an  office  ? 
Better  by  far  a  contented  singer  than  an  unhappy  clerk.  You 
say  you  fear  that  an  idle,  pleasure-loving,  pleasure-seeking  life 
must  ruin  one,  must  make  one  think  that  the  world  was  made 
for  one,  and  so  in  time  must  deaden  all  sense  of  responsibility 
towards  one's  fellow-creatures.  A  man  must  not  necessarily 
be  said  to  lead  such  a  life  as  you  describe,  simply  because  he 
follows  a  calling  congenial  to  him,  and  is  thereby  rendered 
happy.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  must  be  a  poor 
creature  whom  happiness  does  not  make  more  human,  more 
sympathetic,  more  desirous  of  doing  some  little  good  when  he 
can.  Surely  happiness  ought  to  make  us  better,  and  not 
worse.  Somehow  I  can't  think  that  goodness  is  the  outcome 
of  misery. 

"  And  now,  concerning  the  people  with  whom  I  am  asso- 
ciated. It  is  downright  comical  to  find  you  condemning 
people  without  knowing  them.  It  is  so  absurdly  unlike  you  ! 
Who  taught  me  to  look  for  good  in  everybody,  however 
unpromising  ?  You  did.  It  is  a  fine  religion,  this  of  yours,  and 
it  is  astonishing  to  find  you  running  away  from  it.  If  you  knew 
my  fellow-travellers,  no  one  would  more  cheerfully  acknow- 
ledge their  actual  worth  than  you.  They  are  very  much  the 
same  as  the  rest  of  us,  neither  all  good  nor  all  bad,  neither  very 
saintly  nor  very  sinful — for  the  most  part  generous,  unassuming, 
anxious  to  please,  grateful  for  appreciation,  certainly  not  selfish, 
and  always  more  ready  to  say  a  kind  word  and  do  a  kind  action 
than  they  are  to  say  a  harsh  word  or  to  do  an  unkind  action. 
You  condemn  them  for  want  of  knowledge.  As  I  am  one  of 
them  now,  please  extend  to  them  your  ever-ready  charity  of 
opinion.  There  is  one  thing  :  however  severe  you  may  be  to 
the  crowd,  one  has  only  to  reduce  the  crowd  to  single 
individuals,  and  never  had  individual  sinfulness  so  merciful  a 
judge  !  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  how  you  once  pleaded 
with  me  for  one  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  outside  humanity, 
who  seems  to  me  to  be  so  still  ?  Don't  think  I  do  not  think 
of  it  because  I  have  not  spoken  of  it.  I  try  to  put  it  away 
from  me  as  far  as  I  can,  but  in  spite  of  me  it  comes  in  front  of 
me  oftener  than  I  like.  Here  I  am  much  less  charitable  than 
you  are.  For  the  more  I  see  of  the  world,  and  of  the  men  and 
women  in  it,  the  less  excuse  I  can  find  for  a  man  who  commits 


252  Bnnie  H)eane 

the  one  crime  which  the  law  of  this  country  suffers  him  to 
commit  with  impunity.  I  think  of  it  in  this  way,  I  think  of  it 
in  that,  I  try  to  find  some  shadow  of  excuse  for  it,  I  try  to 
soften  it  down,  to  think  it  less  horrible ;  but  I  never,  never 
succeed.  The  man  who  could  do  a  thing  like  that  must  be 
morally  deficient,  or  mentally  weak,  as  are  the  men  who 
take  other  men's  lives,  or  contentedly  fatten  upon  other 
men's  substance.  There  must  be  an  absence  of  under- 
standing— somewhere.  And  now  I  am  condemning  myself, 
for,  if  this  is  so,  then  surely  ought  one  to  say,  *  God  forgive 
him,  for  he  knows  not  what  he  does  ! '  But  I  do  feel  that  such 
a  man  must  carry  about  him  some  distinguishing  mark  by 
which  all  right-thinking  men  shall  know  him  for  something  to 
be  shunned.  I  feel  that  if  I  were  ever  to  meet  that  man,  sheer 
instinct  would  lead  me  to  recognise  and  so  to  avoid  him.  May 
I  never  meet  him !  As  to  the  forgiveness  for  which  you  plead 
so  hardly,  I  think  you  only  want  to  consider  the  matter  fairly 
to  see  that  forgiveness  is  out  of  the  question.  Apart  from  all 
bitterness,  speaking  calmly,  I  say  that  there  are  injuries  which 
do  not  admit  of  forgiveness.  The  only  thing  one  can  do  is  to 
try  to  forget  them." 

He  came  back  from  his  provincial  tour  just  the  same  as 
ever.  Even  Madame's  charming  daughter  had  failed  to  lead 
him  captive,  or,  to  be  quite  correct,  had  not  tried,  she  being 
as  much  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs  as  was  he  in  his.  As  time 
went  on,  Annie  ceased  to  lose  her  breath  when  Lin  mentioned  a 
lady's  name,  just  as  he  ceased  to  feel  that  his  very  life 
depended  upon  some  important  criticism  of  his  share  in  a 
programme.  He  grew  used  to  all  degrees  of  praise,  save  its 
superlative,  which  he  modestly  thought  to  be  beyond  him. 
But  neither  had  he  ever  to  fear  the  adverse  extreme,  from 
which  he  was  as  far  removed.  Everything  intermediate  he 
weathtred  successfully,  and  at  last,  feeling  pretty  sure  of  a 
friendly  audience,  thought  he  might  let  the  dreaded  critiques 
pass. 

Safely  launched  on  the  tide  of  popularity,  Lin  came  and 
went,  making  Merryon  Square  his  headquarters,  and  feeling 
now  no  hesitation  in  doing  so.  The  old  man  was  so  devoted 
to  him,  so  proud  of  his  success,  and  of  having  had  so  large  a 
share  in  bringing  it  about,  that  for  Lin  to  have  lived  elsewhere 
would  have  meant  just  that  sort  of  ingratitude  of  which  he  was 
incapable. 

The  old  friends  from  Brixton  came  up  occasionally,  though 


*'6ivtn9  place  unto  tbe  flew"         253 

not  often,  for  there  were  little  new  friends  now  who  could  not 
come  too,  and  who  would  have  objected  to  stay  at  home. 

During  these  occasional  visits  Annie  would  sit  working  in 
silence,  while  Mr.  Hoskins  and  Lin  talked  "shop"  by  the 
hour,  ever  listening,  as  she  worked,  for  the  mention  of  a 
name,  which,  somehow,  was  never  spoken  in  her  hearing. 
Perhaps  Lin  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  his  own  affairs. 
Even  the  thought  of  the  giants  of  his  profession  failed  to  awe 
him  now.  Familiarity  was  breeding  a  pleasant  sensation  of 
growing  acquaintanceship.  Annie  once  or  twice  nerved 
herself  to  ask  a  question,  but  her  dread  of  Lin  connecting 
that  question  with  the  story  of  his  own  parentage  effectually 
held  her  back,  and  thus  the  name,  though  it  rose  to  her  lips, 
remained  unspoken.  If  Lin  looked  at  her,  she  thought,  she 
would  infallibly  betray  herself.  So  she  stealthily  searched  the 
papers,  finding  there  many  names  with  which  she  had  become 
familiar,  but  his  name — never.  This  puzzled  her.  She  made 
up  her  mind  to  watch  for  an  opportunity,  and  to  ask  where  the 
famous  singer  was,  but  was  saved  the  trouble  by  Lin  himself, 
who  suddenly  looked  up  one  night  from  the  paper  he  was 
reading  with  an  excited  shout  of: 

"  By  George,  he's  here !  He's  singing  for  the  Cancer 
Hospital,  and  I  shall  meet  him  ! " 

"Who,  dear?"  said  Annie,  stooping  to  pick  up  something 
she  had  dropped. 

"  Lindsay  Le  Quesne.  Now,  mother,  here's  your  chance. 
If  you  never  go  to  another  concert,  you  will  go  to  this.  I  am 
determined  that  you  shall  hear  him.  You  will  never  believe 
in  me  again,  but  I  will  put  up  with  that,  just  to  show  you  what 
a  tenor  voice  can  be." 

"  Where  have  he  been  all  this  time  ?  "  she  asked  indifferently. 
"  You've  been  home  two  years,  or  near  it,  an'  I  never  hear  you 
say  nothing  about  him." 

'*  Well,  there  has  been  a  great  deal  said,"  Lin  answered 
thoughtfully,  "  which,  as  it  was  but  rumour,  I  did  not  care  to 
repeat.  The  whole  of  his  engagements  for  last  year  were 
cancelled  on  account  of  ill-health.  It  led  unscrupulous  people 
to  insinuate  that  he  had  lost  his  voice,  and  would  never  sing 
again." 

"That  isn't  true,"  she  said,  "or  he  would  not  be  goin'  to 
sing  now." 

"  Of  course,  it  is  not  true.  I  never  thought  it  was.  I  can 
quite  understand  that  he  would  not  care  to  risk  his  reputation 
by  singing  when  he  was  not  up  to  the  mark.     A  really  great 


354  aiiuie  2)eanc 

artist  cannot  afford  to  do  that.  I  see  here  that  this  is  his  only 
appearance  this  season,  so  go  you  must." 

"  When  is  this  concert  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  for  six  weeks  yet,  the  3rd  of  February,  I  think. 
Now,  don't  say  you  won't  go,  because  you  will,  and  there  is  an 
end  of  it." 

"  I  haven't  said  I  wouldn't  go,"  she  said  slowly,  "  for  if 
everything  goes  well,  I  will  go,  jest  to  hear  your — your — Mr. — 
Le  Quesne." 

And  then  as  Lin  looked  up  at  her  with  a  pleased  smile,  she 
turned  and  left  the  room,  for  suddenly  and  vividly,  like  any 
girl  of  seventeen,  she  had  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

As  the  date  of  that  concert  drew  nearer  she  lost  more  and 
more  of  her  self-possession,  until  the  thought  of  it  was  a  night- 
mare. To  "  have  to  go  "  anywhere  was  always  somewhat  of  a 
trial  to  her  quiet,  retiring  disposition,  and  the  thought  of  the 
crowded  hall,  the  idea  of  sitting  as  one  of  the  crowd  to  see  the 
man  who  had  dominated  her  whole  life,  but  to  whom  she  was 
less  than  nothing,  so  preyed  upon  her  that  it  made  her  ill. 

"  I'll  have  to  tell  Lin  I  canU  go,"  she  thought,  on  the  night  of 
the  2nd  of  February ;  "  for  I  can't,  it's  no  good.  The  thought 
of  it  have  made  me  bad.  I'll  leave  it  to  near  the  last  hour,  an' 
then  I'll  tell  him  I'm  not  well,  and  that  I  can't  go." 

But  Lin  was  not  to  be  "  done."     He  only  laughed. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  am  quite  prepared  for  that  awful 
announcement,  but  I  am  going  to  be  brutal.  I  am  going  to 
insist.  I  know  all  about  your  nerves,  and  after  to-night  I  will 
be  at  their  mercy.  But  for  this  once  I  am  not  going  to  give 
into  them.  You  shall  get  into  a  cab  at  your  own  door,  you 
shall  get  out  at  the  door  of  the  hall.  I  will  see  you  into  your 
seat,  and  I  will  come  and  fetch  you  out  of  it.  But  if  I  have  to 
carry  you,  you  shall  go." 

She  had  to  give  in. 

How  she  controlled  herself  sufficiently  to  sit  quietly  in  that 
cab,  to  let  Lin  help  her  out  and  pilot  her  through  a  crowd  of 
laughing,  chattering  people  to  her  seat,  to  take  possession  of  it 
and  smile  as  Lin  nodded  and  left  her,  she  never  knew.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  through  all  the  heavy  demands  life  had 
made  upon  her  powers  of  endurance,  they  had  never  responded 
so  feebly  as  now.  Her  heart  beat  fast  and  heavily,  her  head 
was  going  round.  She  closed  her  dim  eyes  and  leaned  back  in 
her  chair.  A  ceaseless  chatter  was  going  on  about  her,  which 
would  have  amused  her  had  she  been  able  to  listen  to  it.  Even 
Lin's  professional  name,  spoken  by  a  girl  behind  her,  only 


"  GiviwQ  place  unto  tbe  IRew  "         ass 

moved  her  with  a  dim  sense  of  familiarity.  She  did  not  feel 
curious  as  to  what  they  might  have  to  say  about  him.  But  as 
the  later  comers  surrounded  her  she  began  to  feel  sheltered 
and  to  recover  herself,  to  venture  to  raise  her  eyes  and  look 
about  her,  to  look  at  the  occupants  of  the  crowded  gallery 
through  her  opera-glasses,  as  her  neighbours  were  doing.  She 
dropped  the  glasses  in  her  lap  with  a  start,  as  a  burst  of  applause 
greeted  the  appearance  of  two  distinguished  instrumentalists, 
who  came  forward  to  open  with  a  duet  for  piano  and  violin. 
Annie  found  this  duet  dull  and  uninteresting,  just  a  continuous 
ripple  of  meaningless  sound ;  but  the  next  item,  a  song  by  a 
well-known  baritone,  she  thought  very  nice.  She  even  felt 
sorry  that  Lin's  voice  was  not  strong  and  deep  like  that ;  your 
sonorous  baritone  or  bass  can  usually  command  the  admiration 
of  the  crowd.  After  that  came  a  lady,  who  moved  Annie  to 
genuine  wonder  that  a  voice  could  be  made  to  do  so  much  and 
say  so  little.  Still,  the  lady  was  much  applauded,  and  only  by 
dint  of  determination  escaped  having  to  sing  again.  Then 
came  Lin,  quite  at  home  and  in  excellent  voice.  A  faultlessly 
got-up  young  man  on  Annie's  right  at  once  undertook  to 
enlighten  two  girls  of  his  party  as  to  Mr.  Warrener's  private 
affairs. 

"  He's  an  awfully  decent  chap,  you  know — friend  of  mine 
knows  him  well.  Yes,  he's  one  of  iAe  VVarreners — well- 
connected,  and  all  that.  You  can  see  he's  a  gentleman  at  a 
glance — there's  never  any  chance  of  making  a  mistake  about 
tM^,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never,"  responded  one  of  the  girls  severely. 

"  He's  awfully  good-looking,"  said  the  other,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  Think  so  ?  Well,  it's  a  rum  thing,  but  he's  got  a  downright 
striking  look  about  him  of  the  other  tenor  chap — Le  Quesne, 
you  know.  They  say  he  fancies  himself  on  the  strength  of  it — 
wears  his  hair  and  moustache  in  the  same  way,  cultivates  the 
same  mannerisms,  and  all  that." 

"  Is  not  that  rather  foolish  ?  "  asked  the  severe  young  lady. 
"  Such  a  challenge  to  comparison." 

"  Y-o-s.  But  he'll  never  be  Le  Quesne,  you  know — hasn't 
the  quality  nor  the  power  either." 

"  How  long  before  he  comes  on?     I'm  dying  to  hear  him." 

"  Oh,  some  way  down.  Beastly  long  show,  isn't  it  ?  These 
charitable  concerns  always  are." 

Here  an  indignant  would-be  listener  turned  and  stared  at  the 
chattering  trio,  with  the  effect  of  producing  temporary  silt- nee. 

The  next  two  items  over,  Annie  clutched  her  opera-glasses 


9s6  Bnnfe  2)eane 

and  sat  upright.  All  about  her  was  an  air  of  expectant  excite- 
ment, and  the  well-informed  young  man  on  her  right  had  burst 
forth  afresh  with  reliable  information  concerning  Mr.  Le 
Quesne. 

"  He's  the  deuce  an'  all  of  a  bad  lot,  you  know.  He  was 
going  to  marry  Helen  Le  Breton,  but  all  in  a  hurry  she  found 
out  that  he  had  a  wife  living  apart  from  him  in  some  American 
watering-place.  I  know  a  chap  who  has  seen  her.  Le  Quesne 
never  denied  it  He  was  awfully  gone  on  Le  Breton,  and  she 
on  him.  They  say  it  jolly  near  killed  her.  Come  along,  now. 
Where  is  he  ?     Hallo !  here  he  is," 

"  It  is  not  he,"  said  the  severe  young  lady  breathlessly.  "  It 
is  Mr.  Warrener." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  ou  he  was  like  him  ?  No,  by  Jove,  it  t's 
Warrener.     Le  Quesne's  not  turned  up." 

Annie  took  her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  looked  up.  There 
stood  Lin,  in  the  midst  of  a  hubbub  of  disappointed  excitement, 
patiently  waiting  to  speak. 

He  did  so  with  pardonable  nervousness.  He  had  been 
desired  by  Mr.  Le  Quesne  to  say  that,  owing  to  indisposition 
and  a  throat  affection  induced  by  sudden  change  of  climate, 
he  felt  unequal  to  singing  "  The  Requital,"  for  which  he  was 
down  on  the  programme.  Rather  than  disappoint,  he  would 
sing,  but  it  would  be  at  great  personal  inconvenience,  and  he 
claimed  the  indulgence  which  a  generous  public  would  not 
fail  to  extend  to  an  old  servant  who  had  never  had  occasion  to 
ask  it  until  now. 

The  cheering  was  loud  and  long.  Lin  retired,  and  in 
another  minute  Mr.  Le  Quesne  came  on,  outwardly  self- 
possessed,  but,  as  those  who  were  near  him  saw,  very  pale,  with 
the  curious  yellowish  pallor  of  deep-seated  physical  trouble. 
From  out  of  the  roar  which  greeted  him,  Annie  heard  a  voice 
behind  her  say  triumphantly : 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  Barnes  bet  me  a  fiver  yesterday  that 
Le  Quesne  never  sang  another  song  !  He's  been  in  the  hands 
of  the  German  specialists  for  the  last  six  months,  and  Helston, 
his  own  doctor  here — " 

The  voice  abruptly  ceased  as  Le  Quesne  began  his  song. 

Annie  sat  with  her  white  lips  tight  set,  and  her  opera-glasses 
upheld.  They  were  good  glasses,  and  placed  every  line  of  the 
singer's  face  at  her  mercy. 

What  was  his  voice  to  her?  She  was  incapable  of  judging 
whether  it  were  good  or  bad,  but  his  face  had  been  with  her 
day  and  night  for  five-and-twenty  years,  or  rather  the  face  of  a 


**Gix>inQ  place  unto  tbe  Tlew"  257 

man  whom  she  supposed  was — he.  Once  and  for  ever  let  any 
doubt  concerning  his  identity  be  set  at  rest.  Of  a  surety  here 
was  the  man.  Something  surged  over  her  Hke  a  great  wave  of 
passionate  resentment  and  of  impotent  revolt.  Oh,  time  !  oh, 
pitiless,  insatiable  time !  which  had  so  altered  him  !  He  had 
stood  still  with  her,  surrounded  by  the  glamour  of  his  gracious 
youth.  She  had  had  but  to  close  her  eyes,  and  lo !  he  was 
before  her,  with  his  lithe  length  of  shapely  limb,  his  wavy  brown 
head,  his  sunburnt  face  and  clear  eyes,  and  laughing,  low-toned 
voice.  And  now?  Oh,  this  was  not  he!  He  had  walked 
away  in  the  low  red  sunlight  of  a  summer  evening  years  and 
years  ago,  to  be  seen  of  the  girl  who  loved  him  never  more ! 

"  He,  as  I  knowed  him,  is  quite  dead,"  thought  Annie  Deane, 
as  she  watched  his  ghost  with  hungry  eyes,  "  an'  I,  as  he  knowed 
me,  am  dead  too.  We're  old,  that's  all.  My  Lin's  more  like 
him  now  than  he  is  like  himself." 

She  laid  the  opera-glasses  quietly  on  her  knees.  He  was 
going  off;  there  was  a  roar  of  sound  the  whole  house  through. 
Those  who  were  at  the  back  stood  up.  Annie  heard  loud  cries, 
and  hand-clappings,  and  the  usual  beating  of  sticks  and 
umbrellas ;  she  saw  hats  and  handkerchiefs  wave ;  she  watched 
him  come  back  to  the  platform  five  times,  the  last  time  shaking 
his  head  with  a  weary,  unmirthful  smile.  He  stood  one 
moment  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  leading  from  the  platform, 
slowly  shook  his  head  again,  bowed  yet  once  more,  then  finally 
disappeared.  The  clamour  in  front  continued  until  some  one 
came  forward  and  announced  that  Mr.  Le  Quesne  had  left  the 
hall.  In  the  lull  which  followed,  Annie  heard  the  girls  on  her 
right  declaring  that  they  did  not  remember  ever  having  been  so 
disappointed  in  a  singer  before. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  he  can  ever  have  been  so  very 
wonderful,"  said  the  severe  one  languidly.  "  There  is  nothing 
at  all  in  his  voice  now,  as  far  as  my  judgment  goes." 

"  Well,  there  7i'as,"  the  knowing  young  man  said  ruefully. 
"  Ask  anybody  who  has  heard  him  !  Of  course,  there's  no  use 
denying  it,  he's  simply  gone  all  to  pieces  ! " 

"  He  looked  very  ill,"  the  younger  girl  said  gently.  **  It  was 
good  of  him  to  sing,  but  I  think  he  made  a  mistake,  and  did 
himself  injustice." 

As  he  made  his  final  bow  to  his  generous  audience,  Lindsay 
Le  Quesne  thought  the  same  thing.  Well,  it  was  a  mistake 
made  in  a  good  cause,  and  had  involved  a  sacrifice  of  self  as 
bitter  as  it  was  complete. 

•'  I  will  sing  for  you  if  possible,"  he  had  said,  two  months 

R 


ass  Bnnie  Beane 

before,  and  he  had  kept  his  word,  trusting  perhaps  too  blindly 
in  the  perfect  gift  which  had  been  his  so  long.  More  than 
once,  quite  recently,  he  had  sung,  feeling  ill  and  by  no  means 
sure  of  himself,  and  yet  had  shaken  himself  free  and  had  made 
his  mark.  But  to-night  he  had  made  a  mistake,  the  full 
significance  of  which  he  might  not  stop  to  analyse  at  present. 
Now,  he  had  but  one  desire — to  get  away  and  be  alone.  That, 
and  the  natural  instinct  which  forbids  a  man  to  show  by  as 
much  as  a  shrink  or  a  quiver  that  he  has  lost,  kept  him  out- 
wardly self-possessed ;  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  console 
himself  with  any  comfortable  lie.  Truth — grim,  ghastly, 
pitiless — loomed  darkly  between  him  and  that  applauding 
crowd  ;  truth — grim,  ghastly,  pitiless — followed  him  down  the 
stairs,  prepared  to  follow  him  henceforth  whithersoever  he 
might  go.  Hitherto  he  had  refused  to  look  truth  in  the  face  ; 
he  knew  now  that  he  might  refuse  no  longer.  He  must  get 
accustomed  to  her  stern  features,  must  make  friends  with  them 
— must  learn  to  smile  at  them  as  a  brave  man  should.  Well, 
given  breathing  time,  he  knew  himself  to  be  not  quite  deficient 
m  pluck.  Life,  even  with  him,  had  not  been  all  success. 
He  lingered  half  a  minute  to  listen  to  the  roar  behind  him. 
When  once  he  had  passed  out  of  earshot,  that,  too,  would  be 
among  the  things  that  were  done  with. 

He  was  sorely  tempted  to  turn  back  and  look  at  the  kindly 
crowd  once  more  just  for  gratitude  and  old  friendship's  sake, 
but  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  on  his  heel.  Good- 
byes are  not  so  pleasant  that  one  need  prolong  them.  Better 
to  cut  them  short  and  go.  Once  out  in  the  dark  street — once 
up  his  own  stairs,  into  his  quiet  room,  there  would  be  no 
necessity  for  the  smile  which  was  a  lie. 

He  stepped  down  into  the  passage  leading  to  the  artists' 
rooms.  But  for  having  to  get  his  coat,  he  reflected,  he  might 
have  got  away  without  encountering  any  one.  As  he  stood 
hesitating,  some  one  who  had  been  standing  in  the  shadow  of 
the  staircase  came  forward. 

"I  have  your  coat  here,"  said  Lin  Warrener.  "I  thought 
you  were  not  up  to  standing  about  talking  to  people.  You 
ought  to  get  out  of  these  draughts  as  quickly  as  possible." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker  in  ill-concealed  annoy- 
ance. He  wanted  no  sympathy,  spoken  or  implied.  But  Lin's 
face,  like  his  voice,  exhibited  none.  It  was  quite  unemotional, 
not  to  say  expressionless.  And  yet  something  in  it  attracted, 
then  riveted,  Le  Quesne's  attention. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.     "  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  away.     Let 


"6tvtna  place  unto  tbe  IRew"  as9 

me  see — I  think  it  was  you  who  apologised  for  me?  Again — 
thank  you." 

Lin  assisted  him  with  his  coat  in  silence. 

"  Have  you  finished  ?  " 

"  No.     I  have  another  song ;  not  yet,  though." 

"A  long  programme  to-night." 

"Very.  I  suppose  you  have  a  cab  or  carriage  waiting? 
Shall  I  see?" 

"  No,  I  am  walking.  The  night  is  fine,  and  my  place  not 
two  minutes'  walk  from  here." 

He  stood,  fastening  his  collar  as  he  spoke,  and  looking  at 
Lin  attentively. 

" Do  I  know  you?"  he  said.  "Your  face  strikes  a  chord  in 
my  memory  somewhere." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  tell  you  how.  I  will  get  my  coat  and  walk 
up  with  you  if  I  may — unless,  of  course,  you  would  rather  be 
alone." 

Five  minutes  before  he  would  rather  have  been  alone,  but 
now  he  said  : 

"  I  am  not  so  anxious  for  my  own  society.  Come  with  m^ 
if  you  like." 

Lin  went. 

"  I  can  steal  half  an  hour,"  he  said  cheerily,  as  he  joined  Le 
Quesne  in  the  street.  "  Now,  let  me  account  for  you  knowing 
my  face.  Do  you  remember  a  noisy  crowd  of  temporarily- 
exiled  Britons  who  once  assembled  at  a  station  to  have  the 
honour  of  wishing  you  God-speed  ?  " 

"  What,  in  Italy — three — four  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  remember !  It  is  just  one  of  those  things  a 
man  is  pleased  to  remember.  So  you  were  one  of  that  happy 
crowd.     What  good  times  you  must  have  had  over  there  ! " 

"  Yes.  But,  you  see,  it  takes  so  little  to  make  one  happy 
at  one-and-twenty.  Your  '  Annabel  Lee,'  for  instance,  has 
been  a  delightful  memory  ever  since." 

"Thank  you  once  more;  I  am  glad  you  heard  me  sing 
before  to-night,  because  you  might  have  been  persuaded  that 
reputations  are  made  easily,  whereas  it  is  the  other  way  about." 

"I  hope  I  keep  that  fact  well  in  mind,"  Lin  said,  with  a 
laugh.  "  About  your  singing  to-night — you  were  not  well,  as 
everyone  knew,  and  an  artist  is  not  a  machine  that  he  should 
'  go '  just  because  it  is  time  to  set  him  in  motion." 

"  Ah,  but  he  should  be  1  An  uncertain  reputation  is  worse 
than  a  bad  one." 


26o  annlc  H)eanc 

"  That  can't  be  a  reliable  opinion,  coming  from  you,  who 
have  never  had  either." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  sharp  for  me.  So  you  are  sure  I 
have  not  met  you  more  than  once  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  singing  ?  " 

"  Rather  more  than  two  years." 

"I  did  not  hear  your  song,  but  I  heard  its  reception. 
Judging  by  that,  you  sing  well." 

"  Nothing  startling,"  said  Lin  cheerfully.  "  I  shall  never 
be  among  the  stars,  so  it  is  best  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it." 

"  We  have  only  your  word  for  that ;  and,  even  if  you  are 
right,  I  don't  know  that  you  need  regret  it  much  ;  for,  if  you 
fail  to  get  very  high,  you  won't  have  so  far  to  lall — when  your 
time  comes." 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  the  words,  but  Lin  winced,  and 
said  nothing  in  answer.  As  they  passed  a  brilliantly-lighted 
public-house,  he  felt  he  was  being  watched. 

"  I  can't  quite  make  this  out,"  Le  Quesne  said,  when  they 
had  passed  again  into  shadow.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  anything 
remarkable  in  the  way  of  remembering  faces ;  I  have  seen  too 
many,  and  I  am  sure  I  should  not  remember  yours  had  I  only 
met  you  once  in  a  crowd.  I  must  have  known  somebody  like 
you." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Lin,  as  they  crossed  the  road. 

"  Here  we  are,  and  there  is  a  strong  light  in  my  rooms,  which 
means  that  my  friend  Helston  is  waiting  to  pitch  into  me  for 
disobeying  his  orders,  I  shall  have  to  own  that  I  was  wrong, 
and  that  he  was  right.  I  hate  being  pitched  into — come  in 
and  act  as  a  buffer  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  might,  but  I  must  be  getting  back." 

"  Ah,  I  forgot.  Well,  you  know  where  I  live.  Come  and 
see  me !  Let  me  think,  though.  I  believe  they  are  getting  up 
a  conspiracy  to  prevent  me  from  talking,  so  I  must  not  ask  you 
to  martyrise  yourself.     Do  you  play  cards  or  billiards  ?  " 

"  Both  very  badly." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  offer  you  anything  in  the  way 
of  entertainment.  Still,  I  should  hke  to  hear  you  sing."  Saying 
which,  he  held  out  his  hand.     "  Will  you  give  me  a  look  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to — immensely." 

"Then  by  all  means  do.  Come  in  presently  when  you 
have  finished." 

"  I  would,  but  I  am  on  domestic  duty.  I  have  to  see  my 
mother  home.     She  won't  leave  her  seat  until  I  go  for  her." 


•*<3mno  place  unto  tbe  iRew"  261 

Le  Quesne  turned  round  on  the  step,  feeling  in  his  pocket 
for  his  latch-key. 

"  Sure  it  is  your  mother?"  said  he  drily. 

"As  sure  as  a  man  can  be,"  was  the  answer,  at  which  Le 
Quesne  laughed,  and  Lin  turned  back  towards  the  hall,  the 
echo  of  that  laugh  jarrins;  painfully  upon  him  as  he  went.  For 
himself,  he  was  in  no  laughing  humour,  being  steeped  to  the 
lips  in  a  humiliation  that  was  not  his  own. 

"  It  is  no  business  of  mine,"  he  told  himself  miserably,  "and 
I  wouldn't  have  let  him  see  that  I  felt  it  for  the  world !  But 
I'd  have  given  my  head  rather  than  he  should  have  sung.  He 
need  not  have  sung.  His  name  had  filled  the  place,  and  the 
funds  would  not  have  suffered.  By  George !  he  suffered.  I 
couldn't  have  stood  there  and  smiled  at  defeat  as  he  did.  He 
bore  it  like  a  brick,  and  never  made  a  sign.  I  wonder  what 
he  will  feel  like  when  he  is  left  alone  to-night.  /  should  feel 
like  putting  a  bullet  into  my  head.  For  he  has  had  his  day. 
He  is  done  for,  and  he  knows  it.  I  wish  I  had  not  to  go  on 
again.     He  has  taken  all  the  pluck  out  of  me  for  to-night" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"my  mother — MR.    LE    QUESNE  *• 

"  Shall  we  walk  or  ride  nome  ?  "  asked  Lin  of  his  mother, 
when  it  was  all  over. 

"  I'd  rather  walk,  dear — please." 

**  It's  a  longish  walk,  and  it  is  late." 

"  Just  as  you  like,  only  I'm  tired  of  sitting." 

Which  was  but  half  a  truth  ;  the  whole  being  that  she  was 
athirst  for  information,  and  was  relying  upon  the  walk  home 
to  give  it  her.  Lin,  however,  was  extremely  quiet.  He  did 
not  refer  to  the  concert  at  all — did  not  even  ask  if  she  had 
enjoyed  it.  This  told  her  there  was  something  wrong.  At 
last  she  could  bear  the  silence  no  longer.  If  Lin  did  not  mean 
to  say  anything  about  the  man  he  had  expressly  taken  her  to 
hear,  why,  she  must.  She  could  not  eat  her  heart  out  in 
unbearable  suspense. 

"  How  wus  it  that  you  come  on  to  say  that  to-night,  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  in  this  way  :  Both  conductors  shirked  it.  One 
because  he  has  very  little  English,  and  would  have  made  a 
fearful  hash  of  saying  anything ;  the  other  because  he  is  as 
nervous  as  a  girl,  and  when  he  is  flurried  always  stammers. 
They  wrangled  behind  in  a  way  so  comical  that  I  was  enjoying 
it  until  I  happened  to  look  at  Mr.  Le  Quesne.  He  was 
evidently  too  ill  to  be  kept  waiting  about  while  they  settled 
matters  at  their  leisure.  I — rather  impertinently,  I  am 
afraid — went  to  his  rescue." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Much,  would  you  think?  " 

"  I  really  could  not  say." 

"  But  you  talked  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  walked  as  far  as  his  house  with  him,  and  promised 
to  call." 

She  drew  away  from  Lin's  arm,  and  clenched  her  impatient 
hands  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.  The  announcement  was  such 
a  startling  one,  and  Lin  made  it  in  such  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

262 


**/ftB  HDotber— /ftr.  Xe  diuesnc"        263 

Judging  by  his  manner,  he  might  have  been  caUing  upon  Mr. 
Le  Quesne  all  his  life. 

"What  made  you  do  that ? " 
"  Because  he  asked  me." 

She  gave  a  quick,  sharp  sigh.  If  only  she  dared  have  stopped 
and  have  cried,  **  Tell  me  every  word  that  man  said  to  you,  and 
every  word  you  said  to  him,  or  I  shall  go  mad,"  she  would  have 
done  it,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  Lin  was  answering  her  shortly 
for  the  purpose.  But  she  restrained  herself.  He  could  not 
have  any  suspicion  yet,  and  if  she  asked  too  many  questions 
he  would  surely  begin  to  wonder. 

"  I  heard  a  lot  o'  people  just  round  me  talkin'  about  him," 
she  said  presently. 

"  Yes,  they  always  do.  They  know  more  about  every  public 
man  than  he  knows  about  himself." 

"  They  wus  sayin'  he  had  a  wife  in  America." 
"Well,  that  he  may  have.     I  don't  know.     After  all  my 
ravings  about  his  voice,  I  am  afraid  you  were  disappointed." 

"  I  don't  understand  voices,"  she  said,  with  irritation,  '*  you 
know  I  don't.  It's  no  use  astin'  me  about  singin'.  The  people 
next  me  was  disappointed ;  they  said  so." 

"  Did  they  suppose  he  wanted  to  disappoint  them  ?  Do  they 
think  their  disappointment  matched  his  ?  It  is  easy  enough  to 
find  fault  with  an  artist  who  lets  his  good-nature  run  away  with 
his  judgment,  but  it  is  not  very  kind." 

"I  don't  think  they  meant  it  unkind,"  she  said,  and  they 
walked  on  in  silence  again  until  they  were  near  home. 

"  You'll  call  an'  see  how  he  is,  won't  you  ?  "  she  ventured  then. 
"  Oh,  certainly ! " 
"  When  ?     To-morrow  ?  " 
"  If  I  have  time." 

"  I'd  make  time.  It'll  look  bad  if  you  don't  go  soon." 
She  ascended  the  steps  as  she  spoke,  passed  into  the  house 
in  front  of  Lin,  then  went  straight  up  to  her  own  room.  As 
she  turned  up  the  gas  and  caught  sight  of  herself  she  started. 
Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  and  her  large-pupiled  eyes  brilliant 
with  inward  fire.  She  dared  not  face  her  son  like  that.  She 
sent  word  by  her  little  maid,  who  had  stayed  up  to  attend  to 
Mr.  Holt,  that  she  could  not  come  down  to  supper — that  she 
w\s  very  tired. 

But  she  only  loosed  her  heavy  hair  and  walked  up  and  down 
her  room,  muttering  excitedly  to  herself: 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  him — something  that's  cruel 
bad.     I  can  tell  that  by  Lin's  manner.     He  won't  say  no  more 


364  Hnnie  2>eane 

than  he  can  help;  he  doesn't  when  anything's  touched  him 
deep.  He's  that  fond  of  him  !  he  fired  up  about  them  people 
bein'  disappointed  as  if  it  had  been  hisself !  Can  it  ever  be 
true  that  they  two  are  gettin'  friendly  ?  Oh,  what  will  I  do  if 
they  do?  An'  what  will  I  do  if  they  don't^  Either  way  it'll 
drive  me  mad." 

•  ••••••• 

When  Lin  went  to  bed  that  night  it  was  with  the  fixed  in- 
tention of  calling  at  Mr.  Le  Quesne's  rooms  the  next  day. 
But  somehow  the  next  day  things  appeared  in  such  a  different 
light  that  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  impressions  of  the 
previous  night  reliable.  It  all  seemed  so  improbable.  Le 
Quesnethe  familiar  becameagain  Le  Quesne  the  unapproachable, 
hedged  about  by  the  formidable  barrier  of  his  own  greatness. 

"  What  was  it  all  but  a  mistake  ?  "  thought  Lin.  "  He  was 
ill  and  down  in  the  mouth,  as  a  man  is  when  he  is  queer.  I 
had  a  cheek  to  offer  to  go  home  with  him  !  I  wish  I  hadn't — 
now.  I  shan't  call.  He  is  somebody  in  the  world,  and  lives 
in  an  uncommonly  swell  part  of  it.  I  am — nobody,  and  have 
no  right  even  to  leave  a  card  at  his  door  with  a  name  upon  it 
which  is  not  mine.  If  he  remembers  me,  he  can  easily  find 
me  out." 

It  happened  that  as  Lin  went  up  Oxford  Street  that  day  he 
met  Cliffe  Hayter,  the  baritone  whose  voice  had  made  such  an 
impression  upon  Annie.  Lin  knew  him  slightly,  and  they 
stopped. 

"Shocking  thing — this  about  Le  Quesne,"  Hayter  said  at 
once.  "  I  was  not  altogether  unprepared  for  it,  but  it's  terribly 
hard  on  a  man  of  forty-six ! " 

Lin  nodded,  preferring  to  say  nothing. 

"  For  a  man  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  too,  he's  always  been 
Tcry  civil  to  everybody." 

"  So  I  have  understood." 

"  You  don't  know  him  personally  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present.  He  asked  me  last  night  to  call  upon  him, 
and  I  said  I  would." 

Hayter  smiled. 

"Ah,  that  is  understood,  you  know.  That  is  his  way 
of  showing  that  he  doesn't  put  '  side '  on.  Now  I  don't  want 
to  offer  you  advice,  but  you  are  a  young  hand,  and  in  the 
matter  of  general  invitations  from  *  big '  people,  it  is  better  to 
use  a  little  discretion  than  to  run  the  risk  of  kicking  your 
heels  while  a  lackey  inspects  your  visiting-card,  or  tells  you 
that  there  is  no  one  at  home." 


**{fb's  nbotbct—iXiv*  Xe  dluesne"        265 

The  sensitive  blood  tinged  Lin's  face,  but  he  calmly  agreed 
with  Mr.  Hayter,  and  instead  of  going  where  he  had  honestly 
intended  to  go,  turned  in  another  direction.  Hayter  might 
have  an  unpleasant  way  of  giving  advice,  but  the  advice  itself 
was  sound,  or  seemed  so  to  Lin. 

His  mother  let  him  alone  until  supper-time ;  then,  with  the 
innocent  air  of  one  who  suddenly  remembers  a  thing,  she  said : 

"  Have  you  heard  how  Mr.  Le  Quesne  is  to-day  ?  " 

"I  have  not." 

"  I  thought  you  was  goin'  to  call." 

*'  I  was,  but  somehow  I  don't  think  I  will.  Unequal  friend- 
ships are  not  desirable.  They  are  sure  to  drop  off  and  leave  a 
rankle  behind." 

"  But  he  ast  you  to  go,  an'  you  said  you  would." 

"  I  know.  I  am  told  it  is  his  custom  to  give  invitations  in 
that  way.  I  am  advised  to  use  discretion  in  the  matter  of 
accepting  mine." 

"Told!  Advised!"  She  was  pale  and  excitable.  "You 
said  you'd  go,  an'  outside  people's  advice  didn't  ought  to  make 
you  break  your  word" 

Lin  looked  up,  surprised.  Annie  did  not  flinch.  She  felt 
this  to  be  a  matter  of  principle,  u|)on  which  she  might  venture 
to  insist.     Knowing  her,  Lin  understood,  or  thought  he  did. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  I  will  keep  my  word.  I  will 
go." 

And  the  following  day,  with  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  im- 
pending humiliation,  he  presented  himself  at  Mr.  Le  Quesne's 
door. 

The  man  who  answered  it  inspected  him  leisurely.  Yes,  Mr. 
Le  Quesne  was  in,  but  was  not  seeing  anyone  at  present,  not 
even  intimate  friends ;  was  forbidden  to  do  so  by  his  medical 
advisers.  Even  they — the  servants  in  the  house — had  in- 
structions to  assist  in  the  rigid  enforcement  of  the  order,  "  No 
visitors." 

Lin  took  a  card,  scribbled  "With  kind  inquiries"  under  his 
name,  and  having  handed  it  to  the  solemn  guardian  of  Mr.  Le 
Quesne's  privacy,  went  away. 

"That's  done  with,"  said  he,  trying  not  to  feel  snubbed. 
"  I've  kept  my  word,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  off  for  the  rest 
of  the  week." 

Annie  was  at  once  relieved  and  disappointed  when  she 
heard  the  result  of  that  call. 

By  the  following  Sunday  Lin  was  at  home  again,  and  in  the 
evening  accompanied  his  mother  to  the  last  of  some  Lenten 


266  Hnnie  Deanc 

services  held  in  a  West  End  church.  When  it  was  over,  and 
they  came  out  upon  the  crowded  pavement,  he  turned  round 
in  answer  to  a  touch  on  his  shoulder  from  behind. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  said  he  in  surprise,  with  Le  Quesne's  hand 
in  his  own.  "  I'm — "  He  was  going  to  say  "  Awfully  glad 
to  see  you,"  but  pulled  himself  up  and  said,  "How-do-you-do?" 
instead,  at  which  the  curiously  kind  expression  in  Mr.  Le 
Quesne's  eyes  deepened  into  a  smile.  He  had  grown  used  to 
reading  people,  and  he  read  Lin  very  easily.  He  did  not 
answer  the  conventional  question. 

"  Is  it  not  cold  for  you  to  be  out  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  supposed  to  be  out,  but  I  had  the  blues  indoors, 
and  couldn't  stand  them." 

"  And  a  bad  cold,  too  ?  " 

"  No.     I  am  a  bit  hoarse,  that's  all.     Are  you  alone  ?  " 

•'  I  have  my  mother  with  me,  but  she  seems  to  have 
disappeared." 

"  Still  the  same  mother  ?  " 

"  On  my  honour  !     I  must  go  in  search  of  her." 

"  Find  her,  and  walk  to  the  end  with  me." 

Lin  had  some  difficulty  in  carrying  out  the  first  part  of 
this  order.     His  mother  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  Well,  this  is  odd ! "  muttered  he  to  himself  impatiently, 
turning  back  into  the  shadowy  churchyard,  "  whereon  earth — " 

"  Here  I  am,"  said  Annie  faintly,  stepping  out  from  the 
shelter  of  the  church  porch.     "  Is — is  he  gone  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  am  going  to  walk  part  of  the  way  back  with  him. 
Come  along.     What  made  you  run  away  Uke  that  ?  " 

"You  go,"  she  said,  desperately  resisting  all  Lin's  efforts  to 
put  his  arm  through  hers.  "  I  shan't  come  with  you.  I  can't, 
Lin — I  can't  I  No — no — you  go  alone  !  He  didn't  see  me. 
Go  quick  !     I  couldn't  come — not  for  the  world  1 " 

"  But  why  ?  And  he  did  see  you.  He  sent  me  back  for 
you.  What  on  earth  is  there  in  him  that  you  should  make 
this  extraordinary  fuss  ?  " 

He  spoke  sharply  in  his  impatience. 

"  I'm  not  makin'  a  fuss,"  she  said,  pressing  back  harder  than 
ever  against  the  wall,  "  on'y  you  know  I  never  speaks  to 
strangers — I  can't.     You  never  ast  me  to." 

"  But  for  once  I  do  ask  you.     Come  along  I " 

"  I  can't !    You  go  with  him  an'  leave  me." 

"  How  the  dickens  can  I  do  that  ?  Do  you  know  we  are 
keeping  him  standing  in  the  cold,  and  he  is  as  hoarse  as  a 
raven?    You  need  not  say  half-a-dozen  words  if  you  don't 


"/IDs  /iDotber— /iDr,  Xc  (Stuesne"        267 

want  to ;  but  come  you  must,  unless  you  want  me  to  look  like 
a—" 

"  Fool,"  he  was  going  to  say,  but  remembered  that  he  was 
losing  his  temper,  and  checked  himself. 

"  Now,  no  nonsense,"  he  said  coaxingly.  "  It  is  nothing  but 
that.     Come  along — to  please  me." 

She  gave  in  silently,  suffering  him  to  put  his  arm  through  hers 
and  draw  her  forward — she  shaking  like  a  leaf  the  while — to 
where  the  object  of  her  terrible  dread  stood  patiently  waiting. 

"  Mr.  Le  Quesne — my  mother,"  said  Lin  then  simply, 
whereupon  the  gentleman  lifted  his  hat,  and  the  small,  closely- 
veiled  woman  bent  her  head,  but  uttered  never  a  word,  so 
terrified  was  she.  For  the  whole  length  of  a  long  street 
they  three  walked  abreast,  Annie  in  the  middle,  her  arm 
sometimes  brushing  Mr.  Le  Quesne's  coat-sleeve  as  the  crowd 
jostled  them,  her  head  almost  on  a  level  with  his  shoulder. 
To  her  it  was  an  experience  alike  divine  and  terrible,  for  the 
touch  and  presence  of  him  woke  in  her  so  much  that  it  had 
been  her  daily  task  to  subdue,  and  the  dread  of  recognition 
had  her  in  an  iron  grip.  It  seemed  to  her  impossible  that  he 
could  walk  by  her  side  and  not  know  her.  Why,  she  would 
have  known  him,  living  or  dead,  among  a  thousand.  He  bent 
towards  her  two  or  three  times  and  spoke  to  her,  but  her 
tremulous,  faint  answers  intimated  to  him  that  she  was  an 
extremely  shy  woman,  and  one  in  particular  stamped  her  as 
uneducated,  comprehending  which,  he  considerately  let  her 
alone,  and  talked  to  Lin. 

Once  he  caught  sight  of  her  face  as  they  passed  a  lamp,  and 
the  same  sense  of  familiarity  which  Lin  had  stirred  in  him 
moved  him  afresh,  and  puzzled  him  because  he  could  not  "fix" 
it. 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  they  all  stood,  she  well  back  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

"  Come  in,"  Mr.  Le  Quesne  said  cordially.    "  I'm  all  alone." 

"  Not  to-night,  thank  you,"  from  Lin.  "  We  are  expected 
home  by  nine." 

Annie  spoke  up  suddenly. 

•'  /  am ;  you're  not." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  couldn't  let  you  go  back  alone." 

"  I  know  the  way,  an'  I  don't  mind  at  all." 

"  Nonsense,  Mrs.  Warrener,"  Le  Quesne  said  hastily,  '*  I 
could  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  If  you  will  not  come  in,  send 
your  escort  back  to  me  when  you  have  done  with  him." 

"  I'll  do  that,"  she  said  at  once.     "  He  shall  come." 


268  annle  S)eane 

Mr.  Le  Quesne  bade  her  a  courteous  "Good-night,"  while 
two  hands  which  had  not  met  for  five-and-twenty  years  lay  in 
each  other  for  a  second  or  two,  and  in  one  heart  a  Icng- 
smouldering  fire  burst  into  burning  flame.  This  might  be  but 
the  faint-hued  ghost  of  the  brilUant  figure  she  had  kept  so 
carefully  embalmed  from  decay  in  the  secret  cells  of  her 
memory,  but  better  this  than  any  living  man  the  whole  world 
through  !  Other  men  might  be  as  men  to  other  women ;  for 
her  there  had  never  lived  but  one.  When  she  and  Lin  had 
walked  a  few  yards  she  stopped. 

"  Go  back  an'  catch  him  up,"  she  said  peremptorily ;  "  I'm 
goin'  home  alone." 

"  I  could  not  do  that.     I  will  come  back  later  on." 

"  Go  back  now.  He  likes  you.  You  can't  tell  what  good  it 
might  do  you  to  know  him.  I  should  have  made  you  go  with 
him,  but  you  know  1  d  jn't  like  strangers  to  hear  me  talk.  Go 
back  now." 

"But,  mother,  he  will  not  think  any  the  more  of  me  for 
leaving  you  to  go  to  him." 

"Say  I  made  you  go  to  please  me.  Don't  vex  me,  dear — go 
back.     He's  all  alone  ;  he  said  so." 

Lin,  surprised  but  willing,  went  back,  overtaking  Le  Quesne 
at  his  own  door. 

"  My  mother  insisted,"  explained  he,  laughing.  "  She  is  a 
small  person,  but  resolute ;  so  I  had  to  give  way.  She  is  quite 
at  home  in  London,  and,  as  I  am  so  much  away,  has  often  to 
walk  without  escort." 

"  I  feel  like  a  brute  to  her,  but  a  grateful  one.  Come 
up." 

"  I  feel  worse  than  a  brute,"  Lin  said,  as  he  followed  his 
host  into  a  room  where  everything  from  end  to  end  was  beauty. 
"  You  are  forbidden  to  talk.  I  shall  be  tempting  you  to  break 
through  restrictions  which  can  only  be  imposed  upon  you  for 
your  own  good." 

Le  Quesne  turned  up  the  lamps. 

"  They  impose  restrictions  for  the  sake  of  appearing  to  do 
something,  whereas  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  If  you 
don't  mind  being  talked  to  in  whispers  (it  exasperates  me),  there 
is  nothing  else  of  consequence.     Sit  down  and  have  a  smoke." 

Lin  sat  down.  Le  Quesne  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"My  people  made  a  mistake  the  other  day,"  he  said, 
blowing  rings  of  smoke  upward,  "  I  told  one  of  the  girls  to  tell 
Harker  that  when  Mr.  Warrener  called  I  wanted  to  see  him. 


"  /IDs  /IDotber— /lDr»  Xc  (Sluesne  "        269 

Whether  she  forgot  or  whether  it  was  a  conspiracy,  I  don't 
know," 

"It  was  explained  to  me;  and,  of  course,  it  was  quite  right." 

"  It  was  wrong.  /  asked  you  to  come.  Why  did  you  not 
insist  upon  Harker  letting  me  know  you  were  here  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  think  I  could  have  '  insisted '  when  he  told  me 
you  were  denying  yourself  to  your  own  friends." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  shrug.  "  Why — now  own 
up  and  tell  me  the  truth — why  did  you  not  call  the  day  after 
that  concert?  And  why,  when  you  did  call,  did  you  take  a 
servant's  word  rather  than  mine  ?  " 

"That  is  severe,"  said  Lin,  trying  not  to  turn  red,  "and — 
and — oh,  hang  it  all!  I  dare  say  you  know  without  being 
told." 

He  took  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  and  gave  Lin  one  keen 
look  of  unmistakable  approval. 

"  That's  better,"  said  he.  "  Right.  I  do  know.  As  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  don't  do  it  again." 

"  I  won't.  But  do  you  know  that  I  had  a  rap  or  two  over 
the  knuckles  about  my  impudence  in  apologising  for  you  the 
other  night  ?  One  or  two  people  assured  me  that  I  had  made 
— not  only  a  mistake — but  an  impertinent  mistake." 

"  The  *  raps '  were  administered  by  people  who  were  jealous, 
and,  in  consequence,  spiteful.  You  should  have  laughed  at 
that.  Don't  you  see  that  you  are  making  your  mark,  and  that 
until  you  have  made  it  the  noble  army  of  incapables  will  cry 
you  down  ?  After  you  have  made  it  they  will  be  the  first  to 
cringe.  Take  no  notice  of  them  now  or  then.  Stay,  though  \ 
I  must  not  try  to  make  you  enemies,  now  that  it  is  out  of  my 
power  to  make  you  many  friends." 

He  smoked  for  a  minute  or  two  in  silence,  then  went  on, 
speaking  with  an  odd  mixture  of  graciousness  and  straight- 
forward simplicity  which  Lin  afterwards  described  to  his  mother 
as  "  fascinating." 

"  I  am  interested  in  you,  not  only  because  you  are  a  singer, 
but  because,  if  my  impressions  go  for  anything,  you  have 
qualities  which  in  a  young  man  are  even  rarer  than  good  tenor 
voices.  You  are  kind-hearted,  and  not  ashamed  to  show  it ; 
also  you  trot  your  mother  about,  which  looks  well  for  your 
morals.  May  I  be  impertinent  enough  to  ask  how  old  you 
are?" 

"  Nearly  twenty-four." 

"  An  age  at  which  most  fellows  are  neither  •  fish,  flesh,  fowl, 
nor  good  red-herring.'     Who  is  responsible  for  your  training  ?  " 


270  annte  Deanc 

"My  mother." 

He  looked  immensely  surprised. 

"What,  the  little  woman  I  saw  to-night?" 

"  The  same." 

"  Is  it  possible?     Of  course,  she  had  assistance." 

"  Answering  for  myself,  I  might  tell  you  none.  She  would 
tell  you  she  had  the  assistance  of  God.  I  feel  that  I  have  no 
right  to  answer  you  in  any  other  way,  because  she  would  not 
like  it.     To  her,  this  is  a  simple  truth — a  reality." 

"  It  is,  I  think,  to  every  good  woman.  It  is  the  splendid 
faith  of  good  women  that  keeps  the  world  going.  Pity  it  is 
that  they  are  so  rare.  Do  you  know  that  you  have  been  very 
fortunate?  And  yet,  knowing  well  the  value  of  sincerity  in  our 
lives,  you  let  Harker  deny  me  to  you.     How  was  that  ?  " 

Lin  winced. 

"  You  are  going  deep,"  he  said.  "  A  man  may  know  the 
value  of  sincerity  too  well  to  expect  to  find  it  in  every  fresh 
acquaintance." 

"  He  might  put  his  fresh  acquaintances  to  the  test  on  the 
chance  of  finding  it." 

"  You  are  very  merciless." 

"  And  you  are  much  too  sensitive.  Sensitiveness  in  a  man 
is  a  drawback.  It  prevents  him  getting  on  in  the  world. 
Others  v/ho  are  without  it  get  to  the  front  while  he  is  wondering 
whether  or  not  it  is  bad  taste  to  give  his  neighbour  a  push." 

"I  am  afraid  I  can't  alter  my  nature.  Besides,  you  have 
outlived  diffidence.  I  have  not.  You  do  not  consider — per- 
haps do  not  even  know — that  the  petty  conventionalities — the 
Harkers — of  life  are  mighty  to  those  who  are  not  initiated." 

"  It  is  odd  to  me  that  they  should  be  so  to  any  man  who 
feels  his  own  value." 

"There  you  are.  You  know  yours.  I  have  to  find  out 
what  mine  is.  1  might  have  called  here  again,  but  have  been 
away  since  Thursday." 

"  I  know.  I  saw  where  you  were  singing,  and  I  thought  as 
I  looked  at  the  name  that  it  was  as  familiar  to  me  as  your  face. 
I  knew  some  Warreners  once.  Their  place  was  next  to  my 
uncle's,  just  outside  Warwick.  Are  you  in  any  way  connected 
with  them?" 

"  In  no  way,"  said  Lin,  with  emphasis.  "  I  have  not  a 
single  relative  whose  name  is  Warrener." 

And  again  he  felt  that  conventionalities  are  mighty,  and  that 
snobbery  is  mightier.  Mr.  Le  Quesne  evidently  accepted  him 
for  a  gentleman — that  is,  for  the  son  of  a  gentleman.     He  took 


**/»?  /iDotber— /IDr.  Xe  (Siuesnc"        271 

his  birth  for  granted  first,  and  invited  him  to  his  rooms  after- 
wards. The  pause  threatened  to  become  awkward.  Lin  sat 
thinking,  the  colour  wavering  in  his  face  as  he  tried  to  decide 
how  to  settle  the  difficulty  in  front  of  him.  He  felt  ashamed 
of  himself  that  it  shouid  be  a  difficulty  at  all.  Clearly  it  was 
his  duty  to  accept  no  man's  hospitality  in  masquerade.  He 
felt  that  Le  Quesne  was  not  the  man  to  think  any  the 
better  of  him  for  doing  that.  But  then  it  was  so  easy  for 
one  man  to  talk  of  another's  "  value "  when  his  own  was  a 
matter  of  universal  acceptance.  All  very  well  for  him  to  say, 
"  What  are  the  barriers  of  conventionality  to  me  ?  "  He  might 
venture  to  ignore  them,  having  his  passport  of  "  birth."  Lin 
had  no  such  talisman,  and  to-night  he  chafed  a  little  at  the 
barred  gates.  Le  Quesne  stood  watching  him  with  keen 
interest. 

"  What  is  it  now  ?  "  he  said  gently ;  *'  another  Harker  in  the 
way  ?  "        , 

"  Something  worse  than  Harker.  This :  I  cannot  come  here 
allowing  you  to  think  me  other  than  I  am.  I  am  not  a 
'  gentleman,'  as  the  term  goes,  and  have  no  wish  to  pass  for  one. 
Until  I  was  thirteen  I  earned  my  living  in  a  very  humble  way. 
After  that  I  went  into  a  City  office.  But  for  the  kindness  of  an 
old  friend  of  my  mother's,  I  could  not  have  been  where  I  am 
now.  He  found  the  money  whicn  sent  me  to  Italy,  and  gave 
me  my  chance.  I  feel  compelled  to  tell  you  this,  because  I 
dislike  to  enjoy  any  man's  friendship  under  false  colours.  For 
the  rest,  I  think  it  is  no  man's  business  but  my  own.  Indeed, 
if  I  told  you  more  I  should  be  betraying  private  matters  not 
my  own  at  all." 

"  Well,"  Le  Quesne  said,  with  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  was 
something  more  than  kind,  "  and  what  are  we  leading  up  to  ?  " 

"  Simply  to  a  clear  understanding.  I  don't  wish  to  deceive 
you.  I  am  not  of  your  order,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  come  here 
as  if  I  were." 

Saying  which  he  stood  up,  and  looked  his  new  friend  in 
the  face. 

"  I  see.  Well,"  going  close  and  stretching  out  his  hand, 
•'  will  you  come  here  to  please  me  ?  " 

Lin's  old  pleasant  manner  turned  at  once. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  he,  with  a  happy  touch  of  audacity  as  his 
hand  met  Le  Quesne's  in  a  close,  firm  clasp ;  "  I  will  come  here 
to  please  myself" 

"  Bravo  !  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  may  put  your 
sensitive  pride  in  your  pocket,     I  think  better  of  you  for 


27*  Hnnfe  H)eanc 

having  it,  because  it  is  a  part  of  every  true  artist's  composition  j 
and  though,  as  I  say,  it  often  stands  in  a  man's  way,  it  gains  for 
him  the  appreciation  of  the  very  few  whose  appreciation  matters. 
It  is  rather  an  odd  thing  that,  being  so  sensitive,  you  have  so 
little  fear  of  the  naked  truth.  Sensitiveness  sometimes  afflicts 
the  moral  constitution  with  a  sort  of  spinal  disease.  Did  you 
know  that  I  could  preach  ?  I  must  have  been  making  mj  self 
unpleasant.  I  have  been  prying  into  your  private  affairs,  and 
moralising,  to  boot.  Well,  a  man  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  is 
privileged.  He  may  be  as  objectionable  as  he  likes ;  nobody 
grumbles." 

An  icy  shiver  ran  through  Lin. 

"I  shall  do  more  than  grumble,"  said  he  blankly ;  "if  you 
talk  like  that  I  shall  bolt." 

*'  Yes  ?  That  is  the  way  of  most  men.  I  cat^t  bolt,  you  see. 
In  any  case,  I  must  stay  and  face  it" 

"  But  it  isn't  true,"  said  Lin,  with  stiffening  lips.  "  It — can't — 
be  true." 

"  It  is  true.  I  got  Helston  up  in  a  corner  yesterday  and 
wrung  the  truth  out  of  him.  I  believe  it  hurt  him  more  than 
it  hurt  me.  No  man  has  more  than  his  day,  you  know, 
Warrener,  and  I  have  had  an  uncommonly  pleasant  one.  I'm 
not  ungrateful.  But  because  of  this  I  go  out  when  I  am  told 
to  stay  in,  and  I  smoke  when  I  am  told  not  to  smoke.  I 
would  rather  live  comfortably  for  six  months  than  dismally  for 
twelve.     Wouldn't  you  ?  " 

Lin  pitched  his  cigarette  in  the  fire,  and  was  dumb. 

"  Now  perhaps  you  will  understand  that  '  conventionalities ' 
matter  nothing  to  me.  They  never  did  matter  much.  When 
you  have  seen  life  in  all  parts  of  the  world  you  don't  stop  td 
ask  a  man  for  his  pedigree  before  you  shake  hands  with  him." 

Lin  walked  across  the  room  to  look  at  a  picture. 

"  It  is  bad  form  to  talk  to  you  like  this,"  Le  Quesne  said 
cheerfully.  "  You  are  young,  with  everything  good  in  front  of 
you.  Youth  hates  misfortune,  or  disease,  or  death — it  is 
natural  enough." 

"  But  such  things  are." 

"Yes." 

"  And  we  know  they  are." 

**  That  is  so  ;  but  we  show  them  a  clean  pair  of  heels  when 
we  can.  Now,  I  believe  you  to  be  far  above  the  common  run 
of  men ;  but  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  to  die,  you  threaten 
to  bolt." 

Lin  walked  back  to  the  fire. 


**/IDs  /iDotber— /IDr»  %c  (Sluesnc"        273 

"You  startled  me,"  he  said  quietly ;  "  but  I  will  not  bolt  if 
you  will  let  me  stay." 

'*  Not  if  I  talk  horrors  and  give  you  the  blues  ?  " 

"  Talk  what  you  like.  If  this  is  true,  as  I  hope  to  God  it  is 
not,  of  what  else  should  you  talk  ?  It  must  be  always  in  front 
of  you— it  is  the  one  thing  which  is  real  to  you.  To  talk  of  a 
trouble  sometimes  lightens  it,  and  to  tell  a  man  to  eat  his  heart 
out  in  silence  that  another  man  may  be  more  comfortable  is 
surely  brutal,  isn't  it  ?  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  shan't  be  able 
to  do  anything  for  you,  and  that,"  finished  Lin,  with  a 
suspicion  of  a  break  in  his  voice,  "  will  be  hard." 

Le  Quesne  laughed. 

"You  shall  bear  me  company,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  promise 
you  to  keep  the  skull  and  cross-bones  out  of  sight.  Will  you 
sing  to  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  sing  badly.  I  would 
rather  sing  to  all  the  newspaper  critics  at  once  than  to  you." 

He  sang  very  well,  and  in  five  minutes  his  new  friend  knew 
what  he  was  worth. 

"  Do  you  mind  being  told  that  you  have  not  a  spark  of  the 
•divine  fire'?  Not  that  you  need  regret  that,  for  it  burns  one 
out  too  soon ;  but  you  have  a  voice  that  will  serve  you  well  and 
faithfully.  I  can  be  of  some  service  to  you,  I  think,  although 
my  singing  days  are  over." 

Lin  was  very  late  in  reaching  Merryon  Square ;  but 
late  as  it  was,  his  mother  had  not  gone  to  bed.  She  gained 
nothing,  however,  by  sitting  up,  for  Lin  was  exasperating ly 
uncommunicative. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

LIN  MAKES   A   PROMISE 

It  was  a  bleak  day  in  March. 

Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  lounging  idly  in  his  big  chair  by  a 
cheery  fire,  was  indulging  in  silent  soliloquy,  a  form  of  amuse- 
ment which  had  lately  grown  upon  him.  For  lately  he  had 
had  something  to  think  about,  something  interesting  enough 
to  put  in  the  background  even  that  ever-nearing  end  of  every- 
tliing  which  he  had  grown  to  contemplate  not  quite  unheroically. 
He  looked  up  as  the  clock  chimed,  rose  to  his  feet,  paced  the 
long  room  a  bit,  easily  tired  of  it,  and  dropped  into  the  big 
chair  again,  with  his  face  to  the  darkening  windows  and  his 
thoughts  running  ever  in  the  same  groove.  He  was  thinking 
of  Lin  Warrener,  who,  since  that  Sunday  evening  three  weeks 
before,  had  often  been  with  him,  sometimes  staying  but  a  short 
time,  sometimes  staying  half  the  day  and  far  into  the  night, 
and  always  making  himself  thoroughly  at  home. 

"  I  can't  make  this  out,"  thought  Le  Quesne  to  himself 
for  the  fiftieth  time ;  "  can't  quite  see  why  I  should  have  become 
so  attached  to  him.  I  don't  remember  ever  being  attached  to 
a  man  before.  I  have  had  plenty  of  friends,  good  fellows  and 
true,  for  whom  I  would  have  done  anything  reasonable,  and 
who,  I  believe,  would  have  done  anything  reasonable  for  me. 
But  this  is  a  different  thing.  When  Warrener  comes  into  this 
room  it  affects  me  physically ;  so  does  the  touch  of  his  hand. 
It  sets  my  nerves  quivering.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  before,  and 
in  that  other  life  had  known  him.  I  can  only  put  it  down  to 
that  ghastly  idea  which  I  have  not  the  pluck  to  set  at  rest.  Now, 
clearly  this  is  foolery.  I  will  prove  that  in  the  very  next  talk  I 
have  with  him.  I  can't  think  why  I  have  not  cleared  it  all  up 
before.  Three  or  four  times  I  have  screwed  myself  to  the  pitch 
of  asking  him  about  his  name,  and  at  the  last  minute  my  heart 
has  given  way.  T  have  been  so  afraid  of  his  answer  that  I  have 
turned  sick,  like  a  fainting  girl.  Once  he  saw  it,  and  just  saved 
my  senses  by  giving  me  brandy  and  opening  the  window.  I've 
got  past  mental  excitement — it  kills  me,  but  I  must  know. 

«74 


Xln  /iDaftes  a  promise  27s 

The  thing  is  at  once  so  possible  and  so  impossible  !  He  does 
not  disown  the  name  of  Warrener,  but  I  feel  sure  it  is  not  his. 
He  is  nearly  twenty-four.  He  bears  a  curious,  but  very 
unmistakable  resemblance  to  me.  He  is  as  close  as  the  grave 
about  his  family  affairs,  and,  although  he  often  talks  of 
his  mother,  I  have  never  heard  him  mention  his — " 

He  gave  a  shiver,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  as 
if  to  shut  something  out. 

"  It  all  fits  in,  but  it  can't  be  anything  more  than  sheer 
coincidence.  .  .  .  His  age?  That  goes  for  nothing.  His 
likeness  to  me  ?  I  have  seen  chance  likenesses  just  as  striking. 
His  voice?  History  proves  that  remarkable  voices  are  not 
hereditary.  Still,  I  can't  get  away  from  the  thought.  Why, 
as  that  little  fair-haired  woman  walked  beside  me  that  night, 
did  something  about  her  send  me  cold?  Why  did  her  frightened 
eyes  and  her  purposely-lowered  voice  conjure  up  before  me  a 
Berkshire  wood  on  a  wet  summer  night,  and  a  man  who  fled 
out  of  it  as  from  a  thousand  devils?  Oh,  this  will  turn  my 
hair  gray  ! "  He  got  up  and  paced  the  room,  muttering, 
•'  Warrener  loves  her,  which  he  would  not  do  if  she  were  not 
worth  it.  He  speaks  of  her  as  of  one  whose  principles  are 
quite  above  suspicion.  Is  it  possible  for  the  little  rustic  I  once 
knew  to  have  bred  a  son  like  Warrener?  I  doubt  it.  For 
Warrener  is  the  right  sort — is  straight.  All  his  ideas  seem  to 
have  been  drawn  from  that  which  is  pure ;  he  seems  to  have 
shot  upward  to  the  light  as  naturally  as  a  young  tree 
that  is  left  to  Nature,  and  unspoiled  by  what  is  known  as  culti- 
vation. And  yet,  in  spite  of  this,  the  stamp  of  gentlemanhood  is 
upon  all  he  says  and  does — a  stamp  which,  by  the  way,  he 
repudiates  with  a  certain  touch  of  fierceness.  When  I  said 
something  the  other  day  about  a  'gentleman,'  his  mouth 
hardened,  and  the  first  approach  to  anything  like  a  sneer  that  I 
have  seen  in  him  came  across  his  face.  What  harm  has  a 
•  gentleman '  done  him  ?  I  should  not  judge  him  to  be  vin- 
dictive. I  have  never  come  across  a  nature  at  once  so  manly 
and  so  affectionate.  It  is  this  which  attracts  me.  Most  young 
fellows  in  the  presence  of  illness  are  like  the  proverbial  cat 
on  hot  bricks.  They  hate  it ;  they  are  awkward  and  out  of 
place ;  they  would  as  soon  be  shot  as  go  where  it  is.  But 
when  Helston  and  the  others  had  been  knocking  me  about 
last  Thursday,  and  had  left  me  vilely  ill  and  wretched, 
my  youngster  happened  to  look  in.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
cat  on  hot  bricks  about  hitn.  He  stuck  to  me  with  the  pluck 
and  coolness  of  a  doctor,  and  with  more  than  the  tenderness 


876  Hnnie  Deanc 

of  a  woman.  So  far  from  having  any  wish  to  get  out  of  it,  he 
stayed  because  he  wanted  to  stay,  because  if  there  were  anything 
to  be  done  for  me  he  would  rather  do  it  than  let  anyone  else.  It 
may  be  odd,  but  it  is  true.  No  one  has  ever  cared  a  straw  about 
me  since  she  threw  me  over ;  no  one  has  touched  me  or  looked 
at  me  as  my  youngster  does  since  she  used  to  sit  on  the  arm 
of  my  chair  and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and — make  a 
hopeless  fool  of  me !  I  have  had  a  good  many  things  worth 
having  since  then,  but  never  a  scrap  of  genuine  affection. 
Therefore  am  I  grateful  to  Warrener,  who  offers  it  to  me  now. 
I  wonder  if  she  has  made  a  fool  of  any  man  since  ?  No,  at 
least  I  may  concede  her  that;  I  know  she  hasn't.  It  is 
eighteen  years  since  she  sent  me  adrift,  and  yet  if  I  know  her 
— I  say  *if' — she  loves  me  to  this  day.  If  I  were  to  write  to 
her — I  say  'if  again — and  say,  'Nell,  I  am  dying,  and  I'm 
very  lonely,  will  you  come  to  me  ? '  I  should  have  but  to  know 
where  she  was  to  know  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  was 
with  me.  I  am  not  likely  to  write,  for  she  killed  in  me  all  that 
was  worthy  to  live.  Having  raised  me  to  Heaven,  she  dashed 
me  down  to — to  earth.  Not  lower  than  that,  thank  God — 
no,  not  lower  !  I  was  only  lower  than  that — once ;  which 
recollection  brings  me  back  to  Warrener.     Ah  ! " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  a  bell.  A  trim  girl 
answered  it. 

"  Will  you  get  me  a  North  Ix}ndon  Directory  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  book  was  forthcoming. 

"  May  I  light  your  lamps,  sir  ?  " 

"Thank  you." 

This  done,  Mr.  Le  Quesne  opened  the  Directory,  and  turned 
to  Merryon  Square. 

"No.  19 — No.  19 — here  we  are:  'Thomas  William  Holt.' 
Are  there  two  19's?  No?  Then  who  the  deuce  is  Thomas 
William  Holt?  and  what  has  he  to  do  with  Warrener? " 

He  threw  the  book  on  a  chair,  and  going  over  to  a  little 
table,  tossed  about  a  heap  of  visiting-cards  until  he  came  to  the 
one  he  wanted. 

"  Mr.  Lin  Warrener, 
19,  Merryon  Square,  Camden  Road,  N.W." 

"  lin !  Lin  !  What  an  odd  thing  that  his  name  should  be 
an  abbreviation  of  mine !  Is  that  coincidence,  like  his  unevenly- 
set  eyes  ?  Yes,  seeing  that  that  girl  never  knew  what  my  name 
was,  it  must  be — coincidence." 


Xtn  /TOaftes  a  promise  277 

He  threw  himself  dovrn  afresh  in  the  big,  luxurious  chair,  and, 
lying  back,  closed  his  eyes,  but  still  could  not  shut  out  that 
haunting  dread. 

"  Did  I  not  go  down  there  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  the  girl 
went  to  Canada,  and  that  the  child  died  ?  Whose  word  have 
I  for  that  ?  The  word  of  Mrs.  Drake,  who  may  have  been 
genuine,  and  who  may — not.  I  was  wrong.  I  ought  to  have 
sifted  the  matter  to  the  bottom ;  I  ought  to  have  had  proof,  and 
been  content  with  nothing  less.  Well,  I  must  get  it — now,  and 
the  dread  of  what  such  proof  may  mean  is  shortening  my 
life." 

As,  indeed,  it  was.  He  looked  desperately  ill  as  he  lay  back 
there  with  closed  eyes,  and  his  hands,  as  they  rested  on  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  trembled  visibly.  These  signs  did  not  escape 
the  notice  of  some  one  who,  entering  quietly,  bent  down  and 
looked  at  him. 

He  felt  the  presence,  and  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"  My  dear  lad,  I  did  not  hear  you." 

"  No.  I  knocked,  but  came  in  quietly  then,  thinking  you 
might  be  asleep.     Did  I  startle  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! " 

"  Feeling  ill  ?    You  look  so,  and — worried." 

He  laughed. 

"That  must  be  because  I  thought  you  had  deserted  me. 
Isn't  it  late?" 

"  Yes.  I  was  humbugged  about  the  first  part  of  the  day, 
and  then,  as  I  was  near  some  old  friends  of  mine  at  Brixton,  I 
looked  in,  and  could  not  get  away." 

"  Have  I  not  heard  you  speak  of  your  Brixton  friends 
before?" 

"I  expect  you  have.  They  were  friends  to  me  when  I  wanted 
friendship ;  they  understood  me  and  sympathised  with  me 
when  even  my  mother  failed  to  give  me  comprehension  or 
sympathy." 

"  What  were  you  doing  then  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  clerk  in  a  City  office,  and  desperately  discontented 
and  wretched." 

"  Wretched  ?  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  being  that.  Will 
you  tell  me  about  your  early  life?  Go  back  as  far  as  you  like — 
you  won't  bore  me." 

Unsuspicious  Lin  went  back  to  the  shop  at  Brixton.  His 
companion  listened  attentively,  but  took  the  first  opportunity 
of  interrupting. 

"  You  say  you  were  eleven  when  you  went  to  Brixton  ?  " 


278  annfc  H)eane 

"About  that,  I  think,  or  rather  over." 

"  Where  were  you  before  that  ?  " 

"  At  St.  Saviour's  Schools." 

Le  Quesne's  throat  was  very  dry,  and  he  spoke  with  diffi- 
culty ;  but  Lin,  grown  used  to  his  husky  voice,  did  not  notice 
that  it  was  more  so  than  usual. 

"Are  not  those  Schools  for — iox— fatherless  lads?" 

"There  are  many  such  there,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  a 
*  condition.' " 

He  moved  in  his  chair,  and,  bending  forward,  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  "  Were  you  a  fatherless  lad  ?  "  was  surely 
an  easy  question  to  ask,  but  for  his  life  he  could  not  ask  it. 
Lin's  former  remark,  "If  I  told  you  more,  I  should  be  expos- 
ing affairs  which  are  not  my  own,"  came  back  to  him  now 
with  a  curious  meaning.     He  steadied  himself  and  said : 

"  You  are  a  Londoner,  then  ?  I  did  not  think  your  mother 
spoke  like  one." 

"I  am  a  Londoner — ^yes,  but  my  mother  is  a  Berkshire 
woman." 

He  sat  very  still,  while  the  room  went  round  with  him,  and 
the  cheery  lamps,  receding,  left  him  in  a  dark  mist  that  lay  cold 
and  wet  upon  his  forehead  hke  a  clammy  hand.  He  felt  for 
the  arms  of  his  chair  and  clutched  them  hard,  fighting 
desperately  for  calmness  and  self-possession.  Now — this 
matter  must  be  cleared  up.  One  more  point  was  cleared  up. 
What  nonsense  !  Was  there  but  one  woman  in  all  Berkshire  ? 
Truly,  when  a  man's  physical  forces  failed  him,  he  was  at  the 
mercy  of  nerves  and  womanish  fancies  !  He  would  reconnoitre 
a  bit,  and  give  himself  time  before  he  put  the  question  which 
would  settle  everything. 

"  Any  water  there,  Lin  ?  " 

"Plenty." 

Lin  poured  out  the  water,  noticing  how  the  hand  that  took  it 
from  his  shook. 

"  You  are  a  nervous  rag,"  said  he,  with  affectionate  severity. 
'  I  believe  when  I  am  not  here  you  mope." 

"  I  do,  for  fresh  air.  By  the  way,  I  was  going  to  write  to 
you  the  other  day,  and  lost  your  card  in  the  heap,  so  I  turned 
to  the  Directory  to  see  if  No.  19  were  yours.  I  only  found  the 
name  of  Holt,  and  couldn't  understand  it,  as  you  are  living  at 
home." 

"  Mr.  Holt  is  the  friend  who  sent  me  to  Italy.  My  mother 
is  his  housekeeper.  She  was  that  in  Mrs.  Holt's  time. 
Leaving  out  the  couple  of  years  she  spent  with  us  at  Brixton, 


Xfn  /iDaftcs  a  ipromfse  279 

she  has  been  in  Merryon  Square  for  the  last  four-and-twenty 
years." 

And  still  the  terrible  point  was  not  cleared  up.  As  long  as 
he  was  skirting  round  it,  he  managed  to  keep  himself  in  hand. 
No  sooner  did  he  determine  to  come  to  it  than  his  heart  failed 
him.  It  was  beating  now,  a  slow,  irregular  thud,  which  repeated 
itself  in  his  brain  until  he  was  past  bearing  it.  He  tried 
several  times  before  he  succeeded  in  speaking  clearly  enough 
to  attract  Lin's  attention,  for  one  of  the  lamps  was  too  high, 
and  Lin  had  crossed  the  room  to  lower  it. 

**  Your  father  is,  of  course — dead  ?  " 

The  question  once  fairly  asked,  he  sat  upright,  waiting  to  be 
put  out  of  his  misery,  with  sight  and  sense  slowly  dying  down 
into  a  darkness  something  like  to  death.  Was  it  that  he  could 
not  hear,  or  had  Lin  failed  to  answer  him  ?  He  waited  in 
pitiful  uncertainty, — for  a  few  seconds  only,  but  they  seemed  to 
him  interminable. 

Lin  put  the  lamp  right,  then  stood  looking  at  it  while  he 
mentally  framed  his  answer. 

"  My  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  the  hard  severity  of 
which  fell  upon  his  listener  with  the  stunning  effect  of  a  physical 
blow,  "was  deserted  before  I  was  born.  Of  the  man  who 
deserted  her  it  is  not  my  custom  to  speak ;  but  in  case  you 
should  attach  any  dishonour  to  the  nameof  Warrener,  1  had  better 
say  at  once  that  it  was  not  his,  any  more  than  it  is  mine.  I 
have  no  more  right  to  the  name  of  Warrener  than  I  have,  for 
instance,  io  yours." 

Le  Quesne's  long-held  breath  came  quiveringly  through  his 
lips  again ;  his  heavily-beating  heart  seemed  to  kap  up  in  him 
and  stop.  Still  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair,  he  turned  his 
head  to  the  curtained  doorway  leading  to  the  room  beyond, 
trying  to  measure  the  distance  between  it  and  him.  Could  he 
hold  out  long  enough  to  put  that  pitiful  little  distance  between 
himself  and — what  ?  Between  himself  and  that  which  was  part 
of  himself,  bone  of  his  bone,  flesh  of  his  flesh,  quickened  with 
keenest  life  of  his  giving !     He  was  alone  with  it ! 

Let  him  but  make  one  sign  of  distress,  and  a  hand  would 
touch  him  mercifully,  not  knowing;  a  voice  would  speak  to 
him  affectionately,  not  knowing;  eyes  would  look  anxiously 
into  his  bloodless  face — eyes  that  he  dared  not  meet,  because 
from  them  his  own  looked  back  at  him.  With  the  strength  of 
sudden  horror  he  struggled  to  his  feet.  They  refused  to  carry 
him.  His  eyes  were  dim,  and  the  curtained  doorway  was 
lost  in  a   thick  mist;   in  his   ears  was  a  continuous  ringing 


aSo  Bunic  Deane 

like  the  strong  vibration  of  many  wires.  And  still,  if  only 
he  could  struggle  to  that  door,  and  know  that  it  was  locked 
before  Lin  had  time  to  see  that  there  was  anything  wrong  with 
him  ! 

Three  times  he  tried  to  make  even  one  step  forward.     The 
third  time  he  knew  that  it  was  useless,  and  gave  in.      With 
a  long,  piteous   moan   of  pain,  which   startled   Lin    beyond 
description,  he  dropped  back  in  the  chair  and  fainted. 
Lin  was  beside  him  in  an  instant. 

"  I  ought  to  be  shot !  "  he  burst  out  angrily.  **  A  fool  could 
have  seen  that  you  were  not  fit  to  sit  here  talking,  that  you 
were  holding  out  for  sheer  obstinacy.  I  shall  know  better 
another  time.  What  shall  I  do  with  you?  I'd  rather  look 
after  you  myself  than  turn  you  over  to  anyone  else." 

He  looked  startlingly  grey  and  death-like,  but  Lin  did  not 
lose  his  head,  or  set  the  bells  ringing,  or  make  any  sort  of  fuss. 
He  set  to  work  quietly  with  water  and  eau-de-cologne  and  a 
handkerchief,  having  first  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  big  chair 
and  taken  Le  Quesne's  head  tenderly  on  his  own  shoulder, 
where  it  remained  long  after  the  brain  therein  had  recovered  its 
power  to  suffer. 

It  seemed  to  Lin  a  long  time  before  the  husky  voice  re- 
assured him.     It  was  faint  and  very  languid. 

"  Is  it  you,  Warrener  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Anyone  here  besides  ?  " 

"  No  one  at  all." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  I  apologise  for  giving  you  so  much 
trouble." 

"  You  are  no  trouble  to  me.     You  know  that." 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  Don't  move  me,  and  don't  be  frightened. 
I'm  all  right — now." 

"  I  am  not  frightened,"  Lin  answered,  with  a  gentle  pressure 
of  the  uncertain  hand  that  was  trying  to  find  his ;  "  but  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  keep  about  when  all  the  time  you  feel  like  dying, 
and  never  say  a  word  about  it." 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  conquered  it,  but  it  conquered  me. 
Warrener ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  When  my  time  comes,  and  I  am  dying,  will  you  stick  to 
me?" 

"  You  are  very  merciless,"  said  Lin  in  distress. 

"But  w/V/you?" 

"  I  will" 


Xfn  /Caftes  a  ipromtse  281 

"That  is  a  promise,"  Le  Quesne  said  wearily,  "and  one 
that  /  have  no  right  to  exact  from  you,  God  knows  ! " 

There  were  no  more  confidences  that  night,  although  when 
Lin  felt  at  liberty  to  leave  for  Merryon  Square  the  clocks  were 
chiming  for  midnight. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

*•  «vf  LL  YOU   COME  WITH   ME  ?  " 

For  a  few  days  following  that  talk  Le  Quesne  gave  himself  up  to 
hopeless  certainty,  and  was  very  quiet — a  state  of  things  which 
occasioned  Lin  no  surprise.  A  man  who  was  ill,  who  knew 
that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  he  could  not  expect  to  be  any- 
thing else,  who  owned  that  sleep  only  came  to  him  in  broken 
snatches,  and  that  weary  as  his  days  were,  they  were  heaven  in 
comparison  with  his  nights,  might  well  be  expected  to  be  quiet. 
There  was  one  thing  to  be  said  for  him — he  never  complained. 

"  Do  you  never  get  a  wigging  for  keeping  such  unearthly 
hours  ?  "  he  said  to  Lin  once. 

"  Never  ;  and  do  you  know  that  my  mother's  forbearance  in 
the  matter  surprises  me.  The  dear  old  man  grumbles  at  my 
everlasting  absence,  but  the  mother  says  never  a  word." 

"  I  am  indebted  to  her.     She  seldom  goes  out,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Very  seldom.  As  a  rule,  to  church  and  back.  I  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  getting  her  out" — "to  hear  you,"  he  was 
going  to  say,  but  substituted  "  to  that  concert  on  the  3rd." 

Le  Quesne  smiled.  Even  that  memory  was  losing  its 
bitterness. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  mother,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I 
mean,  I  should  like  to  talk  to  her.  I  suppose  she  would  not, 
for  instance,  come  and  formally  hand  you  over  to  me  for  the 
next  few  months." 

"  I  am  sure  she  would  not.  She  would  as  soon  be  shot  as 
talk  to  a  stranger — a  stranger  out  of  her  own  sphere,  too." 

"  I  saw  very  little  of  her,  but  is  she  not  a  pretty  woman  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Have  you  a  photograph  of  her  ?  " 

"Yes." 

•'  When  you  can  think  of  such  a  trivial  thing,  put  the  portrait 
in  your  pocket." 

A  day  or  two  later,  whrai  Lin  was  leaving  Merryon  Square, 
he  remembered  that  request,  and  turned  back  into  his  own 
room  for  the  purpose  of  complying  with  it      Entering,  he 

282 


**  Mill  sou  come  wltb  /IDe !  '*  283 

paused  in  confusion,  for  his  mother  was  putting  the  room  in 
order,  and  the  photographs,  in  a  folding  leather  frame,  stood  on 
the  dressing-table  just  against  her. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  she  said  :  "  I  thought  you'd  gone." 

"  No,  I  forgot  something,  and  came  back  for  it." 

"  Anything  I  can  get  you  ?  " 

He  walked  over  to  the  dressing-table. 

"  I  want  these.     I'll  bring  them  back  to-night." 

She  flushed  fiery  red,  and  shutting  the  frame,  laid  her  hand 
upon  it. 

"  What  do  you  want  them  for  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Le  Quesne  wants  to  see  them." 

She  tightened  her  hold  on  the  frame. 

"Lin,"  she  said,  "you've  bin  talkin'  about  me  to  Mr.  Le 
Quesne.     It  wasn't  like  you  to  do  that.     I  don't  like  it," 

"  Gently,"  said  Lin,  with  a  touch  of  annoyance.  '*  I  have 
talked  about  you,  but  not  as  you  think  I  have.  You  might 
have  trusted  me  not  to  do  that.  I  daresay  I  can  tell  you  all 
that  has  passed.  He  asked  if  I  were  a  Londoner,  and  said  he 
did  not  think  you  spoke  like  one.  I  told  him  you  were  a 
Berkshire  woman.  He  also  asked  if  my  father  were  living.  I 
took  my  time  in  answering  that  question,  wishing  to  be 
satisfactory  without  betraying  you.  I  told  him  that  you  were 
deserted  before  I  was  born,  that  I  did  not  wish  to  speak  of  the  man 
who  deserted  you ;  but  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  acknowledge 
that  my  name  was  not  Warrener.  I  said  no  more  about  you ; 
in  fact,  almost  as  soon  as  I  had  spoken  he  fainted." 

Her  hand  pressed  upon  ttie  frame  so  heavily  that  the  frail 
glass  cracked  across  with  a  faint  "  click." 

"  I  daresay  you  wus  frightened,"  she  said.  "  You  rung  for 
somebody  to  come  to  him  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  pulled  him  round  myself.  The  day  before  yesterday 
he  asked  me  if  you  would  go  and  see  him." 

" Oil,  no"  she  said  piteously ;  " you  know  I  wouldn't." 

"  I  told  him  so.  It  was  then  that  he  said  he  should  like  to 
see  a  photograph  of  you." 

She  saw  why  on  the  instant.  He  wished  to  be  sure.  When 
he  was  sure,  would  he  tell  Lin  of  the  discovery  he  had  made  ? 
She  drew  the  frame  nearer,  still  keeping  her  hand  upon  it. 

"  He've  forgot  that  by  this  time,"  she  said  ;  "  he  very  likely 
said  it  without  any  meanin'.  I  wouldn't  like  you  to  take  i^ 
Lin,  please." 

"  I  think  that  is  nonsense,  mother." 

"  It  isn't  nonsense.     I  can't  let  you  take  it** 


a84  Bnnie  Deane 

"  Then  show  me  one  sensible  reason  for  refusing  him  such 
a  paltry  request." 

*'  Show  rae  one  sensible  reason  for  him  makin'  it." 

"  You  belong  to  me ;  he  takes  a  great  interest  in  all  which 
concerns  me.     I  suppose  he  likes  me." 

"  That's  on'y  natural.  You've  got  a  kind  way,  an'  if  he's  ill 
an'  lonely  I  can  understand  how  he  likes  to  have  you  with 
him.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  about  me.  I  don't  see  the 
need  for  it." 

Saying  which,  she  took  the  photographs  from  the  table, 
prepared  to  retain  possession  of  them.  Lin  turned  a  trifle 
"  rusty." 

"  You  mean  you  won't  let  me  take  them  ?  " 

"  I  means  that  I'd  rather  you  didn't." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  It  is  a  paltry  thing  to  make  a  fuss  about, 
either  way !  Of  course,  when  a  dying  man  makes  even  a 
paltry  request,  one  likes  to  grant  it  if  one  can ;  and  I  would 
go  far  enough  out  of  my  way  to  gratify  any  wish  of  his.  Still, 
this  is  your  affair.     Good-bye." 

She  stumbled  across  the  room,  was  at  the  door  as  soon  as 
he,  and  stood  with  her  back  against  it,  looking  at  him. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Lin  ?  "  she  said  piteously.  "  A  dyM 
man  ?  " 

"  That  is  so.     He  knows  it." 

"  That  makes  a  difference,"  she  murmured.  "  I  didn't 
know.     How  should  I,  when  you  never  told  me  ?  " 

"  One  does  not  cry  it  all  over  the  place.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  hoping  a  little,  and  perhaps  I  have  felt  it  too  much  to  talk 
about  it  to  any  one.  For  I  like  him  as  1  never  liked  a  man  in 
my  life.  He  has  a  fascination  for  me — had  before  I  ever  spoke 
to  him,  and  the  more  I  see  of  him  the  more  I  admire  him.  It 
takes  a  man  with  a  backbone,  with  some  real  good  in  him,  to 
face  what  he  has  to  face,  and  to  show  no  sign  of  fear  or  of 
revolt.  He  has  had  it  all !  Success  great  enough  to  be  called 
Fame ;  wealth  more  than  enough  to  satisfy  him,  for  his  tastes — 
though  refined — are  very  simple ;  and  the  hope  of  marriage 
with  a  beautiful  woman  gifted  like  himself.  He  is  only  forty- 
six,  and  everything  is  over  with  him,  everything  but  the  wealth, 
which  cannot  even  obtain  for  him  a  few  hours'  immunity 
from  pain  !  Do  you  think  you  would  not  feel  for  him  as  I  do? 
Do  you  think  the  sight  of  his  patient  pluck  wouldn't  go  to 
your  heart  as  it  does  to  mine  ?  Do  you  think  that  if  he  asked 
you  to  do  some  trifling  thing  for  him  you  would  hesitate  to  do 
it,  knowing  how  little  any  one  could  do?  " 


"Mill  sou  come  wttb  mcV*  285 

She  shook  her  head,  trying  to  reiterate  that,  of  course,  she  had 
not  known.     How  could  she,  when  he  had  never  told  her? 

"  I  have  told  you  now,  that  you  may  make  some  excuse  for 
me  if  I  seem  to  be  turning  my  back  upon  my  old  friends  for  the 
sake  of  making  more  influential  ones.  Personal  advancement 
has  nothing  to  do  with  this  particular  friendship.  I  should  not 
run  after  him  for  the  mere  honour  of  being  associated  with  a 
famous  man.  In  fact,  I  don't  see  how  anyone  could  look  at 
him  and  still  have  any  hankering  after  what  we  call  Fame.  I 
know  I  have  steadied  down  wonderfully  on  that  subject  since  I 
have  known  him.  I  say,  with  conviction,  that  I  would  rathtT 
he  left  me  his  character  than  his  voice." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  Lin,  with  an  expression  in  them  half 
of  triumph  and  half  of  despair.  Had  the  time  come  for  her  to 
say,  "  And  this  is  the  man  of  whom  you  would  believe  no  good 
thing  ?  "  She  half  thought  the  time  had  come,  but  was  steeped 
to  the  lips  in  self-distrust.  Until  now,  Heaven  itself  had 
worked  for  her.  She  felt  too  clumsy  and  too  ignorant  to 
interfere.     She  held  the  photographs  out  to  Lin. 

"You  can  take  these  if  you  like,"  she  said.  Ay,  and  the 
very  life  of  her  with  them,  if  it  could  have  done  that  dying  man 
any  good  ! 

Lin  took  them,  feeling  a  little  ashamed  of  his  impatience  as 
he  looked  at  her  pallid  face. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  made  you  think  that  I  keep  my  kindness 
for  strangers,"  he  said,  walking  across  the  room  after  her ;  '•  but 
when  I  am  not  with  him  he  is  alone.  And  1  believe  that, 
failing  me,  he  would  prefer  to  be  alone.  For  he  is  very  con- 
siderate. When  the  doctors  come  he  sits  down  while  they 
probe,  snip,  burn,  and  torture  his  throat,  until  he  is  too  shaky 
and  sick  to  stand  it  any  longer ;  but  he  never  fails  to  thank 
them,  with  what  little  voice  remains  to  him,  for  what  they  have 
done,  or  to  smile  at  me  when  I  have  tried  to  pull  him  round  a 
bit,  and  ask  me  if  I  really  think  it  sensible  to  make  two 
persons  suffer  where  one  would  do  ?  " 

With  her  hands  pressed  hard  to  her  throat,  and  her  heart 
like  lead  in  her,  she  stood  and  listened.  Lin  was  in  a  com- 
municative mood,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  check  him,  though 
she  knew  not  how  to  listen  quietly. 

"  I  suppose  there's  many  a  poor  soul  as  bad  off  or  worse 
than  him,"  she  said  presently.  "  He's  rich.  That  makes 
things  easier.  With  so  many  when  sufferin'  comes,  want 
comes  too." 

"  I  know,  and  that  is  hard ;  but  with  him  there  is  some 


286  Hnnie  IDeane 

thing  harder.  What  the  memory  of  his  sight  is  to  a  blind 
man,  the  thought  of  his  lost  voice  is  to  a  singer  who  can  sing 
no  more.  I  had  felt  that  before,  but  the  other  day  it  came 
home  to  me  with  a  force  that  has  left  my  heart  sore.  I  know 
you  don't  quite  follow  me,  because  you  cannot  enter  into  the 
love  of  a  singer  for  his  art ;  but  if  you  had  seen  the  thing  as  I 
saw  it  the  other  day,  you  would  have  understood.  You  could 
not  have  helped  it  He  is  awfully  good  to  me  in  the  matter  of 
giving  me  hints  on  music,  and  he  takes  no  end  of  pains  in 
seeing  that  I  do  a  thing  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  I  had  been 
playing  something,  and  I  did  not  play  it  to  his  liking,  so  he 
turned  me  out  and  took  it  on  himself.  He  has  the  velvety 
professional  touch,  the  perfect  comprehension  of  the  thing  he 
plays,  which  are  matters  alike  of  artistic  gift  and  faultless  train- 
ing. Well,  as  he  played — it  was  Beethoven's  '  Adelaide ' — he 
lost  himself  in  it,  and  forgot  Carried  away  by  its  beauty,  as  I 
have  been  many  a  time,  he  opened  his  lips  to  sing  it — " 

Lin's  voice  died  away.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  was 
silent.     Annie  crept  closer  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  can  see,"^she  said — "  I  can  see  as  that  must  have  bin 
bitter  hard  to  bear." 

"  Hard  1  He  flung  himself  face  downward  on  a  couch  and 
sobbed  like  any  girl.  That  is  the  only  time  I  have  seen  him 
give  way.  Helston  came  in  not  long  after  and  kicked  up  an 
awful  row  because  he  found  him  so  prostrate.  Now,  I  must 
go.  You  won't  sit  up,  will  you  ?  If  I  leave  him  early,  the 
nights  are  so  abominably  long  to  him,  so  I'm  sure  to  be  late." 

"  I  won't  sit  up.  I  know  what  long  nights  are — that  is,  I  did 
once,  an'  I  never  forgot.  You  can  tell  him,"  with  a  curious 
emphasis  on  the  verb,  "  that  I  said  as  long  as  you  wus  any  good 
to  him  I'd  be  thankful  you  should  stay." 

He  kissed  her,  and  wondering  a  little  at  her  cold  face,  took 
it  playfully  between  his  warm  hands. 

"  If  I  deliver  that  message,"  he  said,  "  you  may  lose  me 
altogether." 

She  only  writhed  her  lips  into  a  smile,  and  drew  away  from 
him,  wishing  him  gone. 

"  Where  are  the  photographs  ? "  said  he.  "  Oh  !  here  we 
are.     Good-bye." 

Lin  walked  into  Le  Quesne's  beautiful  room  as  cheerily  as 
ever,  and  was  welcomed  in  the  usual  way,  with  a  sudden  smile 
and  a  lingering  pressure  of  the  hand. 

" I  get  earlier  and  earlier,"  said  he ;  "I  shall  soon  come  to 
breakfast  like   a  Frenchman.      What  have    I  here?      The 


**  Mill  sou  come  witb  /©e  Z "  «87 

photographs  you  wished  to  see.  I  had  a  bother  over  them. 
My  mother  can't  imagine  why  anybody  should  wish  to  see  her 
portrait.     Been  reading  ?  " 

"  Only  a  poem  in  a  magazine.  It  has  set  me  longing  for  a 
sight  of  the  sea — and,  Lin,  I  must  have  it." 

"  Getting  desperate  ?  "  said  Lin  gently. 

*•  A  trifle  that  way.  Sit  down  and  read  this ;  I  will  be  with 
you  in  a  moment." 

Lin  took  the  book  over  to  a  window  and  sat  down.  Le 
Quesne,  taking  the  leather  frame  from  the  table  whereon  Lin 
had  lain  it,  went  through  to  his  bedroom.  Safely  there,  he 
opened  the  case,  looked  steadily  at  the  fair  face  therein,  and 
sat  down  to  think  things  over.  Time  had  wrought  marvellous 
changes  in  Annie  Deane,  but  this  was  she.  Any  doubt  to 
which  he  might  have  clung  was  settled  for  all  time.  That 
wayside  weed  which  he  had  trampled  upon  and  left  to  die  had 
not  died,  but,  nourished  by  the  Love-spring  within  it,  had 
lived  and  marvellously  thriven;  had  even  come  up  all  the 
fairer  from  his  cruel  tread,  and  had  borne  a  blossom  which  the 
winds  of  Fate  had  blown  right  home  to — him  I  He  threw  the 
frame  upon  the  bed.  Of  the  portrait  within  it  he  thought  but 
little,  except  as  of  a  missing  link  in  his  chain  of  evidence.  What 
he  thought  of  was  the  tall  young  figure  in  the  next  room,  of 
the  bright  young  face,  of  the  eyes  that  were  so  like  his  own, 
of  the  hands  that  were  so  gentle  when  they  touched  him,  of 
the  voice  that  was  so  tender  when  it  spoke  to  him !  And 
the  tears  forced  their  way  as  he  thought,  and  his  heart  went 
out  in  passionate  yearning  to  the  lad  whom  he  dared  not 
own. 

"  My  Lin  ! "  he  muttered  wretchedly  to  himself.  "  The  one 
thing  in  the  world  which  is  mine,  but  to  which  I  may  put  for- 
ward no  claim.  Lin  !  I  must  somehow  have  let  my  nickname 
drop.  She  picked  it  up,  and  gave  it  to  the  boy.  Well,  if  he 
knew,  he  wouldn't  thank  her." 

When  he  re-entered  the  drawing-room,  Lin  was  still  reading, 
so  he  re-laid  the  frame  upon  the  little  table,  unobserved. 

"  This  may  be  poetry  to  the  poetical,"  cried  Lin  dict^.orially, 
"  but  to  me — it's  maudlin  ! " 

"  Your  education  has  been  neglected,  young  man ;  but  the 
poem  is  good." 

"  Well,  we'll  give  it  another  chance,  and  see  what  we  make 
of  it— 


288  Hnnfe  Beane 

"  '  I  have  come  again  to  the  sea,  where  first  for  me  was  the  light  of  the 

sun — 
The  sea  that  in  travail  and  toil  of  years  has  been  to  me  home  and 

mother. 
I  have  seen  the  world  at  its  best  and  worst ;  and  now  that  its  worst  is 

done, 
I  have  come  again  to  the  sea,  where  first  for  me  was  the  light  of  the 

sun. 
Lost  is  the  glory  of  light  that  burst  on  my  soul,  and  what  have  I  won  ? 
Smiles  that  shatter  and  scorn  that  sears  :  there  is  one  true  heart — none 

oilier. 
I  have  come  again  to  the  sea,  where  first  for  me  was  the  light  of  the 

sun — 
The  sea  that  in  travail  and  toil  of  years  has  been  to  me  home  and 

mother.' 

"Takes  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  breath,"  said  Lin  irreverently, 
"and  breath  is  so  valuable,  when  one  lives  by  it  in  more  senses 
than  one.  Besides,  why  say  a  thing  three  times  over  when  once 
is  enough?     If  a  man  does  that  in  prose,  he  is  voted  a  bore." 

"You  are  hopeless."  Le  Quesne,  with  a  laugh,  took  the 
book  away  and  threw  it  on  a  chair. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Lin,  "  a  little  poetry  goes  a  long  way  with 
me.  I  took  on  the  study  of  it  at  the  wrong  time.  I  appi  cached 
it  in  the  spirit  of  revolt  rather  than  that  of  reverence.  A 
fellow  in  the  same  office  with  me  used  to  feed  upon  it,  and 
was  as  full  of  quotations  as  a  girl's  birthday  book.  I  found 
that  I  could  stand  Shakespeare  because  he  was  so  colossal ;  he 
seemed  to  rebuke  everything  into  a  great  peace.  You  dare  not 
cavil  at  him  ;  he  is  so  mighty,  and  yet  with  it  all — a  man  I  A 
man  who  did  not  despise  the  '  common  herd,'  because  he  saw 
that  they  had  their  God-given  right  to  live ;  that  they  were  even 
of  some  account.  Your  modern  poet  is  different.  He  wraps 
himself  in  a  serene  disdain  of  the  great  majority  which  keeps 
the  world  going.  '  You  don't  understand  me,'  says  he,  with  his 
nose  in  the  air.  '  Well,  by  such  as  you  I  do  not  desire  to  be 
understood.  I  write  for  the  chosen  few  ! '  And  this,  mark 
you,  is,  as  a  rule,  said  by  the  man  who  has  all  the  good  things 
of  life  to  start  with ;  who  goes  at  his  leisure  from  one  favoured 
spot  on  the  earth  to  another ;  to  whom  the  ordinary  grind  of 
living — of  finding  out  how  to  keep  body  and  soul  decently 
together — is  a  thing  unknown." 

"  Lin,  don't  get  excitable." 

"  I  must ;  I  can't  help  it.  You  see,  I  come  of  the  great 
plebeian  majority.  I  am  a  Nobody,  and  I  feel  with  my  kind.  I 
remember  once  reading  some  rules  framed  for  men's  guidance 
by  one  of  the  mighty  ones — he  was  a  poet,  too.     He  recom- 


♦'Mill  sou  come  witb  ^e?"  289 

mended  that  every  man  should  endeavour  to  keep  himself  up 
to  intellectual  pitch  by  reading  some  noble  poem  every  day  of 
his  life,  by  seeing  some  great  and  elevating  work  of  art,  etc. ! 
I  got  no  further  than  that.  *  Great  Heaven  ! '  said  I,  *  what 
impudence ! '  How  about  the  millions  of  poor  devils  whose 
sole  idea  of  poetry  is  a  street  rhyme  ?  whose  only  notion  of  a 
picture  is  the  grocer's  yearly  almanack,  or  the  coloured  supple- 
ment to  an  illustrated  paper?  Are  they  not  men  too?  Is 
there  not  an  earth  for  them  f  There  had  need  to  be  a  heaven. 
I  dived  a  bit  into  the  personal  history  of  the  great  man  I  speak 
of,  and  I  found  that,  like  most  preachers,  his  practices  were 
open  to  question.  In  his  relations  towards  at  least  one 
woman  he  was  not  immaculate,  not  even  what  an  ordinary 
man  would  call  honourable.  It  is  true  that  she  was  socially 
beneath  him,  was  of  a  different  order  of  being ;  so  I  suppose 
that  honour  in  his  dealings  with  her  was  not  necessary.  She 
simply  didn't  count ! " 

The  colour  flushed  slowly  in  Le  Quesne's  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  started  you  on  this  subject,"  he  said ;  "  you 
are  getting  bitter,  and  it  is  a  mood  that  does  not  sit  well  upon 
you." 

"  I  am  not  bitter ;  I  only  feel  with  the  rank  and  file,  with 
the  *  nobodies.'  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  read  *  Nobody's 
Story '  ?  Of  course  you  have.  To  my  mind,  it  is  the  finest 
bit  of  prose  ever  written  by  one  who  wrote  nothing  second- 
rate.  An  inspiration,  a  flash  of  real  genius,  it  is  yet  intelligible 
and  homely.  Let  your  high-falutin'  'poet'  match  it  if  he 
can ! " 

Le  Quesne  was  slowly  pacing  the  long  room.  Lin's  opinions 
jarred  upon  him  somehow.  Yet  who  was  responsible  for 
them  ?     Of  a  surety,  nobody  but  himself. 

"  So  you  wash  your  hands  of  the  poets  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No ;  but  I  have  set  up  for  myself  a  poetical  standard 
beyond  which  I  am  content  not  to  go.  The  learned  tell  me 
it  is  not  art  at  all.  Never  mind,  it  is  nature.  We  may  take  it 
to  heart  and  warm  ourselves  by  it,  may  even  learn  from  it  a 
wholesome  lesson  or  two  very  well  worth  learning.  Longfellow 
is  the  woman's  poet,  they  say.     He  is  also  mine." 

"  Don't  monopolise  him.  Few  people  know  him  better  than 
I,  and  I  quite  appreciate  *  a  wholesome  lesson  or  two.'  I  should 
like  to  gwQyou  one.     You  know  the  '  Hiawatha '  ?  " 

"  Do  I  not !  » 

*'  You  remember  the  introduction  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !— 


390  Bnnie  Beane 

"  *  Written  with  little  skill  of  songcraft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heartbreak, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  here  and  the  hereafter.' " 

"  I  mean  something  before  that — a  passage  which  contains 
the  germ  of  a  religion  I  have  often  felt  T  should  like  to  preach 
if  I  had  been  fit — the  necessity  for  human  char;ty — 

*• '  Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human ; 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings. 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not — ' 

Now  you,  in  sheer  unthinking  prejudice,  would  extend  to  the 
savage  a  charity  which  you  would  deny  to  the  Somebody  simply 
because  he  ts  somebody.  And,  Warrener,  you  are  a  bit  in  the 
wrong.  I  have  seen  more  of  life  than  you,  and  I  must  beg  a  little 
charity  for — Somebody.  He  has  a  heart  as  well  as  Nobody, 
though  custom  may  have  taught  him  not  to  wear  it  on  his  sleeve. 
Also,  he  has  a  mental  hide,  which,  being  of  finer  grain  than 
your  prot^g^'s,  is  far  more  easily  vulnerable." 

That  speech  made  Lin  wince.  It  seemed  to  imply  that  he 
had  been  personal.  Before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  what  to 
say,  Le  Quesne  went  on  : 

"  Now,  come  here  and  talk  to  me  upon  another  subject.  I 
have  been  talking  to  Helston.  He  held  forth  on  the  evils  of 
my  being  alone,  and  frightened  me  by  announcing  that  I  must 
have  a  nurse.  I  said  I  couldn't  think  of  it,  that  I  could  not 
entertain  an  elderly  lady  for  my  own  sake,  nor  a  young  one  for 
yours.  At  which  he  said  that  as  long  as  you  were  here,  we 
could  get  on.  So  it  comes  to  this :  Will  you  throw  up  your 
profession  for  the  summer,  and  go  to  the  coast  with  me  ?  " 

Lin  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  I  know,  of  course,  that  I  am  asking  you  to  make  a  great 
sacrifice.  You  are  just  fairly  started ;  to  withdraw  from  yout 
profession  now  means  withdrawal  from  public  notice,  and 
consequent  loss  of  reputation — " 

"I  don't  care  about  that,"  said  Lin  impulsively. 

"Then  you  are  a  trifle  peculiar." 

"  Don't  mistake  me  ;  I  do  care  about  it,  but  I  would  rather 
risk  it  than  leave  you  alone." 


**  mm  i?ott  come  witb  lUc  ? "  agi 

"  You  would  like  to  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  should,  but  I  should  like  to  be  at  work  as  well." 

•'  For  love  of  it  ?  " 

"  No,  for  the  sake  of  my  own  independence." 

"  Then  you  see  that  your  profession  does  not  stand  before 
me,  but  your  pride  does.  Are  you  going  to  turn  me  off  for 
that  ?    You  were  not  so  particular  with  Mr.  Holt." 

"  That  was  different.  I  knew  that  if  occasion  arose  I  could 
repay  him." 

"  You  can  repay  me  in  a  commodity  which  money  cannot 
command.  Already  I  am  very  heavily  in  your  debt.  By  the 
way,  your  old  friend  may  be  disappointed.  He  helped  you  on, 
and  may  feel  annoyed  at  your  withdrawal.  Will  you  let  me 
repay  that  two  hundred  ?     It  is  a  thing  I  should  like  to  do." 

"  No,  no,"  Lin  laughed.  "  What  a  rum  thing  to  want  to 
do  !  The  dear  old  chap  gave  it  me  so  kindly,  and  I  wouldn't 
hurt  him  for  the  world." 

"  Why  should  it  hurt  him  ?     He  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  He  is  the  best  of  things — an  old,  tried  friend." 

"  Well,  settle  this  matter.  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  By 
this  time  next  year  you  will  be  free  again,  and  your  voice  will 
be  all  the  better  for  a  long  rest.  You  who  have  so  much  time 
need  not  grudge  me  a  few  months.    Any  engagements  ahead  ?  " 

"  A  few,  up  to  the  end  of  the  month." 

"  Don't  accept  any  more.  Tell  your  mother  to  send  your 
traps  on  here,  and  I  will  tell  them  to  prepare  you  a  room. 
Hand  me  that  portrait  of  your  mother.  .  .  .  You  are  not  like 
her.     By  the  way,  where  did  she  get  your  odd  short  name  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  a  notion." 

"  It  is  an  abbreviation  of  mine.  My  mother  was  a  Lindsay. 
I  was  born,  and  she  was  buried,  at  sea.  I  often  wonder  if  this 
accounts  for  my  love  of  the  sea.  The  best  days  of  my  life 
have  been  spent  upon  it — I  mean  the  real  red-letter  days 
which  stand  out  boldly  in  one's  retrospect." 

"  I  can  recall  but  few,"  Lin  said  thoughtfully.  "  I  have 
one  vivid  recollection — of  a  day's  excursion  into  Berkshire 
when  I  was  a  little  chap  of  five.  My  mother  had  such  a 
longing  for  me  to  see  the  country  that  she  spent  a  whole 
sovereign  and  took  me  down  for  the  day.  I  think  I  was 
more  awed  by  the  wonderful  quietude  than  impressed  by 
the  beauty  of  things.  One  thing,  however,  remains  with  me 
to  this  day — a  sort  of  terrible  grotesque  !  My  mother  and  I 
were  on  the  wood  side  of  the  hedge,  quite  hidden  from 
any  one  who  might  have  been  in  the  road,  but  very  near 


99»  annfe  H)eane 

a  gate  which  opened  on  to  it.  I  can  only  suppose,  now,  that  a 
man  stood  in  the  road,  undecided  whether  to  turn  in  at  that 
gate  or  not.  Right  in  front  of  it  was  a  broad  turf  ride.  The 
sun  was  low  and  red,  and  the  man's  shadow  stretched  along  the 
turf  gigantic  and  appalling.  I  began  to  whimper,  and  my 
mother,  though  she  tried  to  reassure  me,  was  startled  too.  I 
don't  suppose  you  follow  me,  but  it  is  a  weird  memory  to  me, 
and  has  assumed  the  form  of  chronic  nightmare.  Only  a  week 
or  two  ago  I  was  dreaming  of  that  same  thing.  I  thought  I 
was  trying  to  extricate  my  shadow  from  f/uz^  shadow,  and 
couldn't.      I  was  still  struggling  when  1  woke  up." 

•*  //ow  long  ago  is  that  ?  " 

"  Eighteen  years  ago  in  the  month  of  June." 

Le  Quesne  dropped  wearily  into  a  chair. 

"Eighteen  years  ago,"  said  he,  "in  the  month  of  June,  I 
was  to  have  been  married.  I  remember  /went  on  an  excursion 
to  Berkshire  instead." 

Lin  did  not  remark  upon  the  coincidence,  but  crossing  to 
Le  Quesne's  side,  laid  a  gentle  hand  over  his  haggard  eyes. 

"  You  had  no  sleep  last  night  ?  " 

"  Very  little ;  but  I  don't  see  how  you  should  know  it." 

"Lie  down  now,  while  I  amuse  myself  by  trying  to  find  some 
beauty  in  this  blessed  poem." 

He  pushed  the  couch  nearer  the  fire,  lowered  the  blinds, 
made  his  charge  comfortable,  and  himself  the  same. 

"Lin." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  will  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  And  now  I  may  as  well  make  a  confession. 
The  other  day  when  I  was  late  I  had  been  in  answer  to  a 
telegram  from  my  little  Austrian  *  Madame.'  She  is  taking  a 
concert  party  through  India,  and  she  offered  me  very  good 
terms  to  go  with  her.  But  for  the  thought  of  you  I  should 
have  gone." 

In  response  to  this  confession  Le  Quesne's  hand  went  out  to 
rest  across  Lin's  knee.  Lin  took  the  hand  in  his  own,  and 
settled  down  to  the  "  blessed  poem,"  while  his  charge  fell 
asleep. 

As  the  time  passed  drowsily  by,  he  dropped  his  book  on  the 
floor  and  fell  a-thinking,  with  his  eyes  on  the  sleeper's  face. 

"  It  is  a  queer  thing  to  do,  and  you  must  have  a  wonderful 
grip  of  me,  or  I  shouldn't  do  it.  What  will  be  said  of  me  /or 
doing  it  will  be  enough  to  set  any  man's  ears  tingling.  You 
must  have  had  grand  times  of  it  I     *  I  have  seen  life  at  its  best 


'*  Mill  sou  come  witb /IDc?*'  293 

and  worst.'  You  are  entitled  to  make  that  assertion.  All 
'  champagne  and  truffles  ! '  Now  it  is  *  vin  ordinaire,'  and  the 
bread  of  bitterness.  It  is  such  a  terrible  come-down  that  it 
makes  one's  heart  ache.  Any  other  man  would  grumble  and 
curse  his  fate,  but  there  is  a  nobility  about  you  that  adversity 
can't  touch.  You  have  had  it  all,  and  yet  I  don't  think  you 
have  been  altogether  happy.  I  wonder  why  you  parted  from 
that  woman.     She  must  have  been  hard  to  please." 

He  picked  up  his  book  and  went  on  reading.  Apparently 
his  presence  had  a  quieting  effect  upon  his  companion,  who 
slept  for  more  than  two  hours,  then  woke  with  a  shudder  of 
remembrance  and  a  painful  struggle  for  breath. 

Lin  raised  him  pitifully  on  his  arm. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  your  throat's  dry.  I'll  get  you  some 
water,  or  there's  plenty  of  milk  here.  Marion  has  brought  in 
tea.  Is  that  better  ?  Even  an  ordinary  bad  throat  is  dry  as  a 
chip  when  one  has  been  to  sleep,  you  know." 

•  ••••.«• 

"Well,  if  ever  there  was  a  good,  kind  soul  in  this  world,  that 
young  Mr.  Warrener  is  that  soul,"  said  Marion,  the  maid,  to 
the  stolid  Harker.  "  He  waits  on  our  Mr.  Le  Quesne  hand 
and  foot.  He  glared  at  me  for  rattlin'  the  tray  just  as  a 
mother  might  if  you  threatened  to  wake  a  cross  baby." 

Harker  nodded  mysteriously. 

"  There's  a  ladder  up  to  our  first-floor  window,"  said  he,  **  as 
some  of  you  will  see  through  presently.  You'd  have  seen 
through  it  before  if  you'd  had  any  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

"to  mare  the  punishment  fit  the  crime" 

"  Have  you  told  your  people  to  send  on  your  traps  here  ?  "  Le 
Quesne  asked  Lin  a  day  or  two  later. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have.  As  you  spoke  of  going  away  so  soon, 
I  thought  it  unnecessary  to  change  for  such  a  short  time. 
Also,  for  three  days  this  week  I  must  be  away." 

"  I  cannot  get  away  as  quickly  as  I  hoped  to  do.  Helston 
told  me  yesterday  that  I  am  not  fit.  He  says  I  have  gone 
back.     Here  he  comes.     I  heard  his  carriage-door  bang." 

"  Then  I  will  go  into  your  room.  If  you  want  me,  let  me 
know." 

Dr.  Helston  did  not  put  his  patient  to  the  torture  that 
morning — simply  examined  him  a  little  generally,  and  then  sat 
down. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  unpleasant,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going  to 
speak  my  mind  and  pry  into  yours.  Now,  what's  the  matter 
with  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  surely  for  you  to  say." 

"  No  ;  I  am  at  fault.  We  are  doing  our  utmost  to  prolong 
your  life,  and  as  fast  as  we  do — you  undo." 

"  I  really  don't  understand." 

"  Then  I  will  explain.  Your  local  malady  is  intelligible  to 
me,  but  your  general  condition  is  not.  You  are  variable; 
your  nerves  are  all  to  pieces.  Now,  do  you — what  in  speaking 
to  a  woman  I  should  say — fret  ?  " 

"What  about?" 

"  Your  own  condition." 

"  On  my  honour,  I  do  not." 

"  Nor  about  the  loss  of  your  voice  ?  " 

•*  I  have  left  all  that  behind." 

"  J  thought  so.     Therefore  I  am  the  more  at  sea.** 

"  I  wish  /were  at  sea." 

"Have  you  settled  your  affairs?  No,  I  am  not  saying 
goodbye  to  you ;  don't  think  it.   I  have  many  patients  who  will 

294 


**Uo  mafte  tbe  ipunfsbment  fit  tbe  Cdmc"  295 

die  before  you,  if  only  you  will  give  us  a  chance ;  but  is  your 
will  made  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  occasion  to  make  my  will  afresh." 

*'  And  your  other  business  matters  ?  " 

"  Warrener  is  seeing  to  everything  for  me  now." 

*'  Ah  ! "  Dr.  Helston  turned  his  spectacles  full  on  to  Le 
Quesne's  face,  with  a  sharp  pair  of  eyes  behind  them.  "  Nice 
fellow — Warrener  ?  " 

"  Very  nice." 

"  Known  him  long  ?  " 

"No." 

**  Dear  me  !    He  is  much  attached  to  you." 

"  I  believe  he  is." 

"  And  you  to  him  ?  " 

"That  is  so." 

"Who  is  he?" 

Le  Quesne  hurriedly  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  curtained 
archway  through  which  Lin  had  passed.  The  doctor  repeated 
his  question  in  a  lower  key,  but  met  with  no  reply. 

"  Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

*  Does  Ag  know  ?  " 

"  He  does  not." 

The  doctor  got  up  and  stood  close  to  his  uncommunicative 
patient. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "  It  dawned  upon  me  two  or 
three  weeks  ago.  The  likeness  is  too  peculiar  to  be  a  chance 
one.  I  knew  your  father,  whose  physical  peculiarities  are 
reproduced  in  you.  If  I  know  anything  at  all,  Warrener  is  a 
Le  Quesne  too." 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quiet." 

*'  I  cannot  afford  to  be  quiet.  I  must  speak  for  your  own 
sake.  I  can  see  how  things  are,  although  the  precise  circum- 
stances may  be  unknown  to  me.  The  thought  of  telling  him 
something  that  he  does  not  know  is  sapping  your  life  away." 

"  That,  I  believe,  is  true." 

"Then  you  must  send  him  right  away  from  you  or  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it  and  tell  him." 

"  I  can't  send  him  away.  He  makes  life  endurable  to  me. 
But  for  him  I  might  be  tempted  to  end  it." 

"  Nonsense  !     Why  not  tell  him  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  but  neither  can  I  tell  him  anything. 
It  gets  more  impossible  every  day." 

"  He  is  yours  ?  " 


296  Hnnie  Deane 

"  He  is  mine." 

"  Well,  I  have  told  you,  while  you  are  eating  your  heart  out 
like  this,  you  are  giving  yourself  no  chance." 

It  was  so.  For  the  first  day  or  two  after  Annie's  portrait 
had  settled  what  little  doubt  he  had,  he  had  felt  more  at  rest, 
and  had  consequently  improved  in  health.  But  as  the  days 
passed  the  temporary  relief  passed  too,  giving  place  to  a 
longing  for  open  acknowledgment,  for  mutual  understanding. 
The  more  he  saw  of  Lin,  the  more  convinced  he  became 
of  the  utter  folly  of  telling  him  in  what  relation  they 
stood  to  each  other.  Lin  would  infallibly  turn  his 
back  upon  him,  would  change  from  Lin  the  merciful  to 
Lin  the  merciless  in  a  few  terrible  moments.  The  thought 
of  such  transition  was  too  bitter ;  he  could  not  face  it.  Once 
or  twice  he  made  up  his  mind  to  see  Annie  herself,  but  from 
that  ordeal  also  he  shrank  with  a  shudder  of  disgust.  Thought 
of  renewed  intercourse  with  her  was  revolting.  Even  in 
thinking  of  I^in,  the  remembrance  of  his  being  her  son  took 
something  away  from  his  value.  If  he  could  but  be  separated 
from  her !  If  only  the  Deane  in  him  could  be  set  aside,  as 
Nature  had  set  it  aside,  simply  stamping  him  with  the  Le 
Quesne  seal !  He  felt  the  brutality  of  such  thoughts,  but  they 
were  with  him  all  the  same.  The  thought  of  Annie  Deane 
produced  in  him  a  sick  shiver  like  that  produced  by  some 
edible  to  which  one  has  a  strong  antipathy.  He  fought  against 
it,  but  it  was  there.  How  had  she  found  out  his  identity  with 
the  false  lover  of  her  youth?  Of  one  thing  he  was  certain: 
she  had  not  disclosed  it  to  Lin.  Therefore  surely  she  must 
still  be  in  doubt?  He  conjectured,  resolved,  wavered — 
resolved  again,  until  his  brain  reeled,  and  it  was  little  wonder 
if  his  health  were  unsatisfactory.  Even  Lin  failed  to  rouse 
him  to  anything  like  animation,  and  but  for  the  wistful, 
affectionate  way  in  which  the  restless  eyes  followed  him 
wherever  he  went,  even  Lin  might  have  begun  to  fancy  himself 
unwelcome. 

"  There,"  cried  he  cheerfully  one  evening,  "  I  have  despatched 
the  last  letters,  and  am  free  to  go  about  my  own  business.  I 
must  start  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  cannot  anyhow  get 
back  until  the  day  after.  Own  up  that  you  will  be  glad  to  be 
rid  of  me." 

"That  goes  without  saying.  I  have  a  man  coming  on 
business  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall  take  the  opportunity  of 
writing  the  two  or  three  private  letters  that  you  couki  not  write 
for  me." 


**Uo  mafic  tbe  ipunisbment  tit  tbe  Crtme"  297 

"  At  the  end  of  which  you  will  be  pretty  well  used  up.  I 
wish  I  weren't  going.  One  thing — it  is  my  last  long 
journey." 

"  Come  and  sit  down.  You  will  not  mind  a  little  business 
worry  by  and  by  ?  I  want  to  make  you  an  executor  under 
my  will.     Will  you  give  me  your  baptismal  name  ?  " 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  really  wish  me  to  do;  but  actual 
name  have  I  none.     In  the  eyes  of  the  law  I  don't  exist." 

"Never  mind  the  law.  What  name  were  you  baptized 
under  ?  " 

*'  My  mother's  name  of  Deane." 

"Thank  you.  I  was  obliged  to  ask,  for  the  sake  of 
accuracy ;  that  is  all." 

"  I  understand.  I  hate  having  to  tell  any  one,  even  you. 
Not  for  my  own  sake,  because  I  can't  believe  that  any  right- 
thinking  man  or  woman  would  think  less  of  me  for  a  thing 
with  which  I  had  nothing  to  do.  Directly  I  own  that  my 
mother  is  an  unmarried  woman,  everyone  reads  that  as  '  a  dad 
woman,'  which  she  never  was,  and  never  could  have  been." 

"  Is  uncharitableness  so  rampant  ?  " 

"As  regards  the  sin  of  a  woman,  I  think  so.  You  have 
seen  a  good  bit  of  all  sorts  of  life  ;  but  even  you,  although  you 
speak  leniently  and  say,  '  Ah,  well,  such  things  are ! '  in  your 
heart  think  that  such  women  are  sinners,  and  must  expect  to 
be  stoned." 

"  I  have  not  said  so.     I  do  not  think  so." 

"  I  cannot  help  it  if  you  do,"  said  Lin,  a  trifle  aggressively. 
'*  I  care  nothing  for  any  man's  speech  or  thought  upon  this 
subject.  I  apologise  to  no  man  for  my  mother.  She  is  a 
sympathetic,  selfless  soul,  who  has  toiled  for  years  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  me  benefit  by  her  martyrdom.  She  is — oh  !  where  is 
the  use  of  me  saying  what  she  is  ? — it  is  that  which  makes  me 
savage  !  What  avails  it  that  I  have  proved  her  to  be  good,  and 
honest,  and  pure  ?  I  might  assert  it  until  I  was  hoarse ;  nobody 
would  believe  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right.  You  will  do  better  to  keep 
your  faith  to  yourself.  You  will  not  make  converts,  and  you 
will  make — enemies." 

Lin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  How  was  he  to  know  that  a 
very  miracle  could  not  have  converted  this  man,  who 
remembered  her  but  as  a  pertly-pretty  little  rustic  ;  who,  so  far 
from  finding  her  "  good,  and  modest,  and  pure,"  had  found 
her  as  clay  ready  to  his  half-unwilling  hand.  No,  the  miracle 
could  not  have  converted  Lindsay  Le  Quesne  to  i/tai  faith  ! 


898  annie  Dcanc 

Again  the  sick  shiver  went  through  him  as  he  remembered  that 
Lin  was  his  and — hers. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  the  mistakes  of 
women  are  unjustly  dealt  with.  There  is  no  gradient  in  the 
case.  A  woman  is  either  at  the  top  or  at  the  bottom.  Some 
day  we  may  arrive  at  a  fairer  adjustment  of  things,  may 
discover  how  to  'make  the  punishment  fit  the  crime,'  like 
another  •  Mikado.'" 

*'  Then,"  said  Lin  quietly,  "  there  will  be  many  men  cut  off 
for  ever  from  every  domestic  tie,  and  from  the  friendship  of 
every  right-thinking  person." 

"Better  hang  them  at  once,  or  herd  them  away  from 
civilisation,  as  they  do  the  lepers." 

"  Hanging  is  reserved  for  murderers.  A  life  for  a  life  is 
still  exacted.  The  honour  of  a  woman  is  as  much  to  her  as 
her  life.     Then  let  the  man  who  takes  it  forfeit  his  own." 

"  You  feel  strongly  concerning  this  particular  sin  ?  " 

"I  do.  I  would  as  soon  have  to  aiswer  for  the  crime  of 
murder  as  for  the  ruin  of  a  girl ;  I  wcul  <  as  soon  shake  hands 
with  the  man  who  had  committed  the  one  sin  as  with  the  man 
who  had  committed  the  other." 

Le  Quesne  moved  uneasily  and  put  his  hand  over  hit  eyes. 
Lin  bent  down  and  looked  at  him. 

"  All  right  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change  from  severity  to 
infinite  kindness.  "  I  keep  my  eye  on  you  since  you  collapsed 
without  warning  a  week  or  two  ago.  I  can't  aflford  to  have  my 
nervous  system  shattered  in  that  way." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shattered  it  then,  did  I  ?  " 

"That's  a  different  thing,"  Lin  laughed.  "  You  see,  I  didn't 
know  so  much  of  you.  Now  I  think  you  have  magnetised 
me.  I  declare  solemnly  that  on  the  days  when  you  are  extra 
queer  I  don't  feel  worth  a  rush  myself ! " 

He  kept  his  hand  so  as  to  shield  his  eyes  from  Lin's. 

"  Being  so  sympathetic  in  one  way,  I  should  like  to  make 
you  so  in  another.  As  you  spoke  just  now,  I  was  thinking  how 
tremendously  severe  you  young  ones  are  upon  a  sin  to  the 
committal  of  which  you  have  never  had  any  sort  of  temptation  ? 
What  can  you  know  of  the  after-life  of  a  man  who  has  fallen  a 
victim  to  such  temptation  ?  Perhaps  if  you  could  follow  that 
you  might  see  that  he  was  punished  quite  enough." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  see  nothing  so  satisfactory.  We  all 
know  that  there  are  plenty  of  criminals  of  this  stamp  who  go 
scot-free." 

'•  We  know  nothing  of  the  sort ;  we  see  their  outside  lives,  and 


**^o  mafte  tbe  ipunisbment  fit  tbe  Crime"  299 

rush  to  our  own  conclusions.  *A  man's  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness.' " 

"  I  know,  but  a  man  who  could  do  a  thing  like  that  could 
have  no  heart  at  all." 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  that 

"  •  In  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human '  ?  " 

"  I  could  tell  you  a  history  which  might  make  you  doubt  it' 

"  Tell  it  me." 

"  No.     I  have  no  right  to  make  it  public." 

"  There  is  one  point  upon  which  your  faith  is  greater  than 
mine,"  said  Le  Quesne  slowly.  "  Your  knowledge  of  women  is 
limited.  When  you  know  more  of  them,  they  will  cease  to  be 
each  a  goddess  on  her  own  pedestal,  and  man's  scepticism  as 
to  their  divinity  will  become  more  pardonable  in  your  eyes. 
But  I  must  hold  my  tongue.     I  don't  want  to  corrupt  you." 

"  I  don't  think  you  could.  All  my  ideas  of  women  are 
derived  from  one  good  woman.  Whatever  of  good  there  is  in 
me  is  derived  from  her." 

"  Perhaps.  But  were  you  much  with  her?  Were  you  not, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  at  school  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  her  twice  a  week." 

"You  saw  more  of  others.  I  should  take  it  that  your 
character  was  moulded  by  them.  Self-reliance  came  to  you 
early,  also  outside  sympathy  and  comprehension.  And,  by 
the  way,  did  not  your  mother  fail  you  later  on  ?  Your  own 
determination,  and  the  help  of  outside  friends,  made  you  what 
you  are.  Really,  I  cannot  see  that  you  owe  her  as  much  as 
you  think  you  do.  Circumstances  and  the  difference  of 
education  severed  you.  You  must  very  early  have  left  her,  so 
to  speak,  behind." 

"  Ah  !  you  do  not  know,  and  I  believe  it  is  useless  to  try  to 
tell  you.  The  fact  is,"  he  laughingly  bent  over  Le  Quesne  and 
rested  his  hands  on  the  framework  of  the  couch,  "  you  are 
bristling  with  aristocratic  prejudices.  You  don't  know  it,  but 
you  are." 

"  Absurd  ! "  He  laughed,  too.  "  And  if  I  am,  what  has 
that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Simply  this :  I  have  admitted  that  my  mother  is  an 
uneducated  woman.  I  have  also  told  you  that  she  is  a 
deeply,  outspokenly  religious  woman.  Now,  even  on  the 
subject  of  religion  you  are  intensely  aristocratic.  Only  the 
other  day   you  said  that  you  could   not  talk  much  about 


300  Bnnic  Deane 

religion,  nor  believe  in  the  man  who  did;  that  reh'gion  got 
louder  as  the  social  scale  descended,  until  at  last  it  got  to  the 
street  corners  and  a  brass  band.  I  watched  you,  and  I  thought 
what  an  out-and-out  aristocrat  you  were  at  heart." 

"  Lin,  drop  that  word  !  It  is  as  bad  as  the  obsolete  *  genteel.' 
I  have  seldom  heard  it  used  until  I  heard  you  use  it." 

"  Well,  you  see  I  am  not,  what  must  I  say — patrician  ?  So 
why  on  earth  you  took  to  me,  I  cannot  imagine." 

"  My  dear  lad,"  he  lingered  over  the  words,  trying  to  hide 
the  tenderness  in  them,  "whatever  else  you  are,  you  are 
genuine,  and  the  rest  goes  for  nothing." 

Lin  stood  upright,  went  across  to  the  piano,  and  played  a 
bar  or  two  of  the  quaint  thing  that  was  ringing  in  his  head. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said  lightly ;  "  it's  just  another  *  Pink 
trip  slip  for  a  six  cent  fare.'     I  can't  get  rid  of  it — 

*•  '  To  make  the  punishment  fit  the  crime, 
The  punishment  fit  the  crime.' " 

"  We  are  in  sympathy.  It  is  ringing  in  my  head.  Do  you 
know  that  if  ever  I  had  committed  any — any — such  sin,  as — 
as  the  one  we  were  speaking  of  just  now,  I  might  be  tempted  to 
think  that  my  punishment  had  fitted  the  crime  ?  " 

"  What  a  ghastly  thing  to  say  !  And  how  have  you  ever 
been  punished  until  now  ?  " 

"  Sit  down  and  I  will  tell  you." 

Lin  sat  down  close  to  him,  with  his  half-smoked  cigarette 
between  his  lips,  and  his  arm  thrown  in  half-careless,  half- 
caressing  fashion  across  the  head  of  the  couch. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

"  I  WILL  REPAY  " 

'•  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  let  you  tell  me  anything.  You 
know  talking  is  bad  for  you." 

"  I  have  been  quiet  for  two  or  three  days,  and  I  don't  find 
it  makes  much  difference.  I  want  you  to  remember  what  I 
say,  because  of  a  time  that  is  coming  when  you  will  know  more 
of  me  than  you  know  now." 

Lin  looked  surprised. 

"  I  shall  never  know  anything,"  he  said  heartily,  "  that  will 
alter  my  opinion  of  you." 

"  That  is  a  rash  assertion." 

'•  Yes  ?  Never  mind — I  make  it  in  all  confidence.  You 
see,  you  have  been  a  sort  of  hero  to  me  for  years.  And  now 
to  think  that  I  know  you,  to  find  that  I  was  not  mistaken  in 
you,  to  know  that  I  am  privileged  to  be  of  some  small  service 
to  you — well,  I  say  in  all  sincerity  that  this  is  the  keenest 
pleasure  I  have  ever  known." 

Le  Quesne  smiled,  but  his  eyes  filled. 

"  I  am  a  sorry  '  hero '  for  you,  Lin.  You  make  me  think  I 
had  better  hold  my  tongue.  Why  should  I  be  so  anxious  to 
undeceive  the  only  person  who  has  ever  made  a  hero  of  me  ? 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  your  ideas  of  women  have 
set  me  thinking  of  my  own  early  impressions,  and  I  can  see 
what  has  made  the  difference  between  us.  To  begin  with,  you 
reverence  your  mother.  I  have  no  idea  what  manner  of 
woman  my  mother  was.  I  was  educated  with  a  family  of 
cousins,  and  I  lived  with  them  until  I  was  old  enough  to  turn 
out  on  my  own  account.  The  uncle  who  undertook  to  bring 
me  up  was  a  solicitor,  a  substantial  '  family '  man,  who  was 
received  by  the  county  people,  whose  daughters  rode  to 
hounds,  and  whose  sons  were  in  expensive  regiments,  going 
the  pace  with  the  fastest.  There  were  four  daughters,  and 
(don't  let  me  shock  you)  not  one  of  them  worth  a  thought ! 
Selfish,  vain,  unintelligent,  fast^  they  had  but  two  ideas — the 
first  was  to  get  money,  the  second  to  convert  it  into  dress.     I 

301 


303  Himle  Deane 

hope  such  girls  do  not  grow  in  every  family,  but  they  grew  in 
that  one,  and  they  lowered  my  ideas  of  womanhood  for  all 
time.  AH  those  girls  married.  Heaven  knows  why !  My 
aunt  did  nothing  to  check  the  fearful  extravagance.  In  fact, 
she  was  as  extravagant  and  as  useless  as  the  girls  themselves ; 
and,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  other  women  who  came  to  stay  in 
the  house  were  pretty  much  the  same.  They  looked  upon  me 
as  a  boy,  and  seldom  troubled  to  take  any  notice  of  me,  so  I 
had  ample  opportunity  to  sample  the  conversation  of  women, 
married  and  unmarried,  when  such  conversation  is  en  dishabille, 
and  I  can  tell  you,  Lin,  that  very  often  it  was  anything  but — 
nice.  When  my  cousin  Madge,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  became 
engaged  to  a  man  of  forty,  I  well  remember  some  old-fashioned 
friends  of  my  uncle's  making  a  special  journey  into  Warwick- 
shire, armed  with  clear  evidence  of  the  bridegroom's  hopeless 
depravity.     My  aunt  heard  the  evidence  without  turning  a  hair. 

"  *  Simple  spite,'  she  said ;  '  nothing  but  spite.'  For  her 
own  part  she  should  not  dream  of  taking  any  notice  of  it, 
much  less  of  permitting  it  to  stand  in  the  way  of  Margaret's 
marriage. 

"  Marriage  was  the  thing,  you  see,  Lin.  They  must 
marry.  No  matter  whom,  as  long  as  he  was  socially  up  to  the 
mark.  Neither  a  man's  age  nor  his  habits  mattered  a  jot,  as  long 
as  his  family  were  good  enough,  and  his  pocket  deep  enough.  A 
boy  fresh  from  college,  or  an  old  sinner  on  his  last  legs — both 
were  fair  game,  and  both  were  hunted.  I  grew  to  think  of  all 
women  as  fair  frauds,  with  a  dangerous  hook  attached  to  the 
third  finger  of  the  left  hand.  Anyway,  I  tell  you  that  when  I 
was  your  age  I  held  women  very  lightly." 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  Lin  said.  "  You  saw  no  reason 
to  do  anything  else ;  you  had  been  to  such  a  bad  school. 
Your  opinion  of  women  altered.  I  want  to  know  when,  and 
why." 

"  It  began  to  alter  directly  I  got  among  women  who  were 
making  their  own  way ;  who  were,  in  plain  language,  earning 
their  own  living.  No  matter  whether  by  necessity  or  choice,  the 
effect  was  to  ennoble  them.  I  had  always  had  a  hope  that 
there  were  women  who  had  souls  above  the  level  of  a  draper's 
shop  window.  Very  soon  after  I  entered  the  musical 
profession  that  old  hope  began  to  strengthen  in  me,  and  as  it 
strengthened  it  gave  an  earnestness  to  life  that  I  cannot 
explain.  I  did  not  understand  it  then,  for  I  was  blind  to 
much  that  to  you  has  been  clear  everyday  experience.  I  have 
no   hesitation  in  saying  that  when  I  began  life  on   my   own 


"5  mill  IRepai^"  303 

account  I  could  not  have  loved  the  best  woman  God  ever 
made.  I  could  not  have  sufficiently  freed  myseU/rom  myself. 
It  was  not  in  me  to  comprehend  a  good  woman,  because  I 
could  not  have  believed  in  her.  I  looked  upon  marriage  as 
the  very  last  folly  which  any  man  with  a  seeing  eye  could 
commit.  It  was  such  a  splendid  institution  for  women  that  it 
must  of  necessity  be  a  bad  one  for  us.  As  time  went  by  there 
dawned  upon  me  an  idea  that  I  had,  perhaps,  been  wrong,  and 
that  the  true  interests  of  the  two  sexes  were,  after  all,  identical. 
But  nothing  happened  to  make  me  study  that  matter  until  I 
was  nearly  six-and-twenty." 

"  Not  much  of  an  age,  after  all,"  said  Lin  leniently. 

"  I  don't  think  my  age  excused  me.  I  was  as  old  at  eighteen 
as  you  are  now,  and  older.  But  then,  you  see,  you  have  had 
to  work,  and  work  is  the  finest  safeguard  against  evil  ever  yet 
discovered.  As  soon  as  I  began  to  work  I  was  a  better  man. 
I  had  been  singing  nearly  five  years  when  I  met  Miss  Le 
Breton.  It  was  my  first  season  in  opera.  We  were  singing 
together,  and  saw  a  good  deal  of  each  other.  I  had  heard 
much  talk  of  her,  and  had  smiled  in  derision.  A  little 
virtue  in  a  prima  donna,  as  in  Royalty,  goes  a  long  way.  But 
I  soon  found  that  all  I  had  heard  was  plain,  unvarnished  truth. 
Don't  be  afraid  ;  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  a  long  description 
of  her,  but  I  should  like  to  give  you  some  idea  of  what  she 
was,  or  you  might  not  comprehend  what  followed.  She  was 
a  combination  of  opposites,  which  says  little,  because  all 
charming  women  are  that.  She  was  a  creature  of  ideals,  and 
yet  intensely  lovable  and  human ;  rarely  and  variously 
gifted,  and  yet  a  very  fireside  witch.  She  had  money  in 
her  own  right,  which  she  devoted  entirely  to  charity, 
hoping  thereby  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  those  less 
happy  than  herself.  She  lived  upon  what  she  earned,  and 
that  by  no  means  luxuriously — or  not  more  so  than  was 
necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  her  position  as  an  opera  singer. 
In  her  private  life  she  was  simple  to  t'  e  verge  of  severity,  and 
I  never  saw  her  in  an  extravagant  gown.  A  staunch  Roman 
Catholic,  she  had  seen  too  much  and  dived  too  deeply  into 
things  to  have  any  bigotry  about  her  ;  but  religion  was  real  to 
her,  and  guided  her  every  action.  I  can  safely  say  that  I 
never  heard  her  say  a  malicious  thing,  that  I  never  knew  her 
prevaricate  or  coquette  with  the  truth ;  I  know  she  would  not 
have  told  a  lie  to  save  her  head.  She  once  owned  to  me  that 
she  felt  very  deeply  her  responsibility  towards  God.  *  He  had 
started  her  so  generously,'  she  said,  with  the  little  homely  way 


304  antiie  2)cane 

of  expressing  herself  that  she  had  sometimes.  She  felt  she 
must  live  up  to  her  gifts,  that  as  so  much  had  been  .i;iven  her,  so 
much  would  be  required.  Now,  can  you  fancy  the  astonish- 
ment with  which  I  heard  a  woman  talk  in  that  way  ?  Can  you 
imagine  the  effect  it  had  upon  me  when  I  found  that  here  was 
a  woman  who  in  the  midst  of  wealth  was  simple-minded,  who 
in  the  midst  of  temptation  was  loftily  pure,  who  in  the  midst  of 
success  great  enough  to  turn  the  brain  of  the  levellest-headed 
man  alive  was  steady,  undated,  utterly  unspoiled  ?  As  I  grew  to 
know  her  better,  to  realise  that  she  was  what  she  seemed  to  be, 
my  old  self  fell  away  from  me.  I  was  a  new  man.  I  remember  a 
few  fearful  weeks  in  which  I  staggered  about  like  a  man  who 
has  been  trying  to  look  at  the  sun,  and  then  through  a  woman 
I  saw  what  manhood  should  be,  and,  through  that  vision  of 
manhood,  I  saw  God.  What  sAe  was  to  me,  some  woman  will 
some  day  be  to  you — simply  the  woman  one  loves.  There  is 
no  miracle,  Lin,  though  every  man  thinks  one  has  been  wrought 
for  him  alone.  Even  now  my  old  superstition  clings  to  me,  for 
I  believe  I  loved  that  woman  as  never  man  loved  woman  yet ! 
You  see,  she  was  so  well  worth  loving.  It  took  one  out  of  the 
common  to  convert  me,  but  being  converted,  there  were  no  half 
measures  possible  to  me ;  I  fell  down  and  worshipped  her.  I 
had  not  anticipated  my  conversion  by  giving  a  little  faith  to 
one  goddess  here,  and  to  another  there.  I  had  lived  as  men 
do  live,  certainly  not  better,  perhaps  a  little  worse ;  but  I  had 
never  cared  two  straws  for  a  woman  before  that  time,  as  I  have 
never  cared  two  straws  for  a  woman  since,  although  from  a 
scoffer  at  them  all  I  grew  to  look  uj  on  the  sorriest  wreck  among 
them  as  sacred,  for  was  not  she,  too,  a  woman  ?  and  had  not  a 
woman  once  been  dearer  to  me  than  life  ?  Does  it  sound  like 
high-flown  nonsense  to  you,  Lin  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lin  quietly,  "  it  sounds  like  truth ;  but  I  cannot 
like  your  Miss  Le  Breton.  To  my  mind's  eye  she  is  stone — I 
beg  your  pardon,  marble.  I  feel  I  should  like  to  give  her 
pedestal  a  stealthy  push." 

"  She  was  not  stone — she  was  dainty,  passionate  flesh  and 
blood.  All  her  opinions  were  deep-rooted,  and  she  had  the 
courage  of  them." 

"  Say  she  was  a  strong-minded  woman,  and  have  done  with 
it,"  said  Lin  resignedly.  **  For  my  part,  I  say,  from  anything 
like  a  strong-minded  woman  may  Heaven  and  all  the  saints 
deliver  me ! " 

"Why?  She  is  above  a  weak-minded  woman,  as  a  man 
with  a  will  of  his  own  is  above  one  who  has  none !  " 


*^5  Mill  IRepafi"  305 

"You  admire  women  whose  aim  in  life  is  to  shiiek  from 
every  available  platform,  and  to  seize  the  House  of  Commons 
for  themselves  ?  " 

"  My  dear  lad,  take  my  word  for  it  that  they  are  infinitely 
preferable  to  the  women  who  squander  God-given  wealth  on 
their  own  empty  vanities;  who  move  heaven  and  ea'th  to  find 
husbands,  but  never  one  finger  to  make  of  themselves  wives ; 
who  bear  children  because  it  is  the  one  natural  process  from 
which  they  cannot  escape,  but  who  afterwards  turn  their  backs 
upon  every  other  responsibility  connected  with  them.  Their 
dress  and  their  dogs  take  up  their  spare  time.  Hired  nurses, 
of  whom  they  know  nothing — with  whom  they  themselves 
could  not  associate — are  good  enough  for  their  children.  Your 
platform  shriekers  are  better  than  they ;  at  least,  they  are  in 
earnest  about  something." 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  would  care  to  marry  a  strong- 
minded  woman  ?  " 

**  I  should  prefer  her  to  a  woman  who  had  no  mind  at  all. 
The  man  who  shuns  intelligence  in  his  wife  is  either  knave  or 
fool ;  he  either  fears  to  be  found  unworthy  or  empty-headed. 
I  think  any  sensible  man  would  prefer  to  share  his  life  with  his 
intellectual  equal  rather  than  with  his  inferior." 

"  Please  let  it  stop  at  equality ;  don't  tie  a  man  to  his 
intellectual  superior.  He  wouldn't  have  the  ghost  of  a  chance; 
he  would  be  smiply  snuffed  out." 

"  He  would  have  every  chance.  Superiority  of  intellect  is 
rarely  self-assertive.  The  wider  the  culture,  the  greater  the 
courtesy.  A  cultivated  woman  would  be  far  more  likely  to 
appreciate  what  is  due  to  a  man  than  an  uncultivated  one. 
Don't  make  the  mistake  of  supposing  submission  to  be  the 
peculiar  attribute  of  ignorance.     It  is  quite  the  reverse." 

"  I  shall  have  to  invoke  the  aid  of  my  old  friend,  and  tell 
you  that 

"  '  What  I  most  prize  in  woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect.'  '* 

"A  matter  of  natural  disposition.  Ignorance  does  not 
breed  affection  any  more  than  culture  kills  it.  The  nature 
which  is  aflfectionate  will  remain  so,  whether  the  intellect  be 
cultivated  or  not." 

"  I  do  perceive  that  I  am  worsted,"  said  Lin,  with  a  touch  of 
tragedy.     "  Let  us  get  back  to  your  goddess." 

"  Who  was  so  human  that  she  loved  me  1  She  braved  the 
wrath  of  her  people  and  the  grave  di  approbation  ol  her  Church. 

u 


3o6  Bnnie  Beane 

In  less  than  six  months  from  the  time  we  met  we  were  engaged 
to  be  married.  I  was  like  the  man  in  *  Maud,'  then,  Lin — I 
had  my  '  day.*  It  lasted  a  few  short  weeks.  There  was  nothing 
to  wait  for,  so  we  resolved  to  marry  quietly,  without  delay. 
Everything  of  a  preliminary  nature  was  settled. 

"  We  sat  one  evening  together,  discussing  the  tremendous 
change  in  people  which  is  brought  about  by  marriage,  the 
severance  of  trivial  ties  and  friendships  which  marriage  effects, 
and  she  spoke  regretfully  of  some  letters  which  she  could  not 
quite  determine  to  destroy,  and  yet  had  little  wish  to  keep. 
They  were  a  man's  letters.  She  sealed  them  carefully  up  at 
at  last  in  order  to  put  them  away,  and  then  laughingly  asked 
me — what  about  mine  ? 

"  I  laughed,  too,  and  going  through  into  my  room — yes,  that 
very  room  yonder — I  brought  out  a  drawer  into  which  I  had 
tossed  the  contents  of  an  old  disused  portmanteau :  piles  of 
old  letters,  nothing  more.  I  remember  I  spoke  with  light- 
hearted  contempt  of  them  and  of  their  forgotten  writers,  and 
she  shook  her  head  at  me  in  rebuke. 

"  '  Burn  them,'  I  said.  '  They  should  have  been  burnt 
before.' 

"  There  was  nothing  there  of  which  I  had  the  slightest  fear — 
nothing,  I  felt  quite  certain,  by  which  any  woman  could  have 
been  compromised.  What  man  in  his  senses  would  keep 
letters  of  which  he  was  afraid  ?  Besides,  I  knew  Miss  Le 
Breton  perfectly.  I  knew  she  would  read  nothing  there 
except  by  express  invitation,  or  with  a  view  to  destroying 
anything  manifestly  worthless.  I  left  her  to  amuse  herself 
with  the  bonfire  while  I  wrote  some  letters  on  business  con- 
nected with  my  marriage.  As  I  was  addressing  my  last 
envelope,  she  asked  if  I  had  finished. 

"  '  Very  nearly,'  said  I.     '  Have  you  ?' 

" '  I  can  get  no  farther,'  she  said,  looking  at  me  in  an  intent 
way  peculiar  to  her.  *  What  is  this  ?  I  found  it  with  this  old 
photograph  of  you.' 

"  I  got  up  and  took  the  thing  out  of  her  hand. 

"  Such  an  innocent-looking  thing  it  was,  Lin — my  '  bolt 
from  the  blue ' !  Merely  a  few  words  written  on  a  business 
memorandum '  telling  me  of  an  incident  which  had  come 
under  the  writer's  notice,  and  with  which  I  was  associated." 

He  paused,  compelled  to  pause  by  the  heavy  beating  of  his 
heart  and  the  consequent  unsteadiness  of  his  voice. 

"  No,  no,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said,  in 


"5  Mill  IRepas"  307 

answer  to  Lin's  anxious  regard  of  him;  "but  I  have  never 
spoken  of  this  to  man  or  woman,  and  the  thought  of  it  stirs 
me  to  this  day." 

Which  was  more  lie  than  truth.  It  was  not  the  thought  of 
Helen  Le  Breton  which  set  his  heart  a-ihrob  to-night,  and 
parched  his  lips  until  utterance  was  a  matter  of  effort.  His 
dread  of  that  parting  years  ago  had  been  great,  but  the  dread 
of  parting  with  Lin  was  far,  far  greater.  And  he  was  getting 
perilously  near  to  the  confession  which  might  bring  it  about. 

"  But  what  zvas  it  ?  "  said  Lin,  with  a  touch  of  excitement, 
as  he  threw  his  cigarette  end  into  the  fire. 

"  You  remind  of  her.  '  What  is  it  ? '  she  said,  as  I  stood 
there  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  'Lindsay,  tell  me  that  the  woman 
is — mistaken.*  I  told  her — God  knows  what  I  told  her !  The 
thing  looked  so  black  against  me — was  so  black — that  the 
more  I  tried  to  explain,  the  more  I  condemned  myself.  I  saw 
it  in  her  whitening  face  and  her  altered  manner.  I  gave  up, 
and  was  dumb." 

"But  what  had  you  done?  Nothing  heinous,  /  dars 
swear ! " 

Here  was  his  chance.  Now  was  it  clearly  his  duty  to  give 
Lin  back  his  faith  in  him,  and  say  : 

"The  thing  I  had  done  was  heinous.  As  you  judge,  she 
judged." 

Le  Quesne  paused,  turned  coward,  and  let  his  chance  go  by 
Some  sort  of  confession  he  must  make,  but  rather  than  tell  the 
naked  truth  to  Lin,  he  felt  he  could  have  suffered  death. 

"  Heinous  !  "  he  repeated  wearily.  "  To  her  it  must  have 
— have — seemed  so.  Judging  as  she  judged,  it  was  so.  Her 
standard  of — of — morality  was  high,  and  when  a  woman  loves 
a  man  she  rarely  takes  him  for  what  he  is ;  she  takes  him  for 
what  she  herself  has  made  of  him." 

He  spoke  half  impatiently.  He  was  impatient — with  his  own 
cowardice.  So  far  he  had  but  lain  the  blame  of  their  parting 
upon  Miss  Le  Breton's  ultra-fastidious  sense  of  honour.  Where, 
even  now,  was  his  own  ? 

"  Warrener,"  he  said  abruptly,  in  his  torture,  "  I  have  never 
tried  to  make  myself  out  to  be  a  saint,  have  I  ?  You  seem  to 
speak  as  if  I  had.  Don't  I  tell  you  that  there  were  many  by- 
ways off  the  high  road  of  my  life  down  which  I  could  not  have 
taken  a  woman  like  Miss  Le  Breton  ? — a  woman  who  held  that 
a  man's  life  should  be  morally  blameless,  since  he  demands  a 
spotless  record  with  the  woman  he  marries." 

"  Did  she  expect  to  find  such  a  man  ?  "  said  Lin  drily. 


3o8  Bnnfe  Deanc 

"  I  cannot  say.  She  knew  that  I  was  not  such  a  man.  Still, 
there  was  one  thing  far  back  in  my  life  of  which  I  had  not 
told  her,  for  a  reason  hereafter  to  be  given  you.  Before  I  had 
reached  the  age  of  one-and-twenty  I  had  treated  a  girl  what 
men  in  our  life  would  call  shabbily.^* 

He  paused  again.  Could  he  let  it  stop  at  that  ?  Did  that 
mild  word  do  justice  to  the  situation  ? 

"  Shabbily,  according  to  our  creed ;  unpardonably,  accord- 
ing to  hers.  Unpardonably,  now,  according  to  mine ;  but 
when  I  did  it,  I  did  not  see  as  1  see  now.  Women  were  no 
marble  goddesses  to  me  then,  Lin.  They  were  hollow  casts — 
shams — not  even  whitewashed,  some  of  them,  and  the  one  of 
whom  I  speak  had  been  to  me  the  cheapest  of  them  all.  I 
had  gone  my  way.  My  studies  abroad,  my  success  both  there 
and  at  home,  had  put  the  girl  out  of  my  head.  In  my  heart 
she  had  never  had  a  place.  God  forgive  me,  I  had  never 
thought  her  worth  it.  I  was  wrong.  Anyway,  on  the  eve  of 
my  marriage  with  Helen,  that — that — girl  of  whom  I  speak 
had  passed  out  of  my  memory  with  the  shadows  of  all  the 
others.  There  was  but  one  reality,  and  she  was  to  be  my 
wife." 

He  stopped  and  glanced  at  Lin.  He,  sitting  forward  in  a 
chair  with  his  hands  clasped  about  his  knee,  was  intensely 
interested,  but — in  Le  Quesne's  side  of  the  narrative  solely. 
Odd  as  it  may  seem,  the  motif  of  the  story,  the  unknown 
"girl,"  utterly  passed  him  by.  The  narrator  saw  it,  with  a 
mighty  throb  of  relief. 

"Well?"  said  Lin. 

"Well,  there  we  stood — I  with  the  cursed  paper  in  my 
hand,  and  she  watching  me.  All  I  could  get  from  her  was, 
'Tell  me  the  truth.  No  matter  how  bad  it  is,  tell  me  the 
truth.' 

"  I  recalled  the  circumstances  as  well  as  I  could,  and  told 
her  everything.  Ninety-nine  women  in  a  hundred  would  have 
forgiven  me,  but  I  had  had  the  courage  to  love  the  hundredth, 
and  she  hesitated.  She  said  she  must  have  time  in  which  to 
think  the  matter  over.  I  gave  her  as  much  as  she  chose  to 
take.  The  next  day  she  sent  for  me.  She  said  that  she  was 
unable  to  keep  herself  any  longer  in  suspense ;  that  in  trying 
to  come  to  a  right  conclusion  she  saw  one  gleam  of  hope  for 
herself  and  for  me.  She  said  I  knew  her.  I  knew  she  held 
that  a  man  should  be  as  far  above  suspicion  as  the  woman  he 
married ;  that  he  had  no  right  to  demand  a  purity  in  her 
which  he  could  not  claim  for  himself.       I    knew  that  in 


"3  Mill  IRepa^*'  309 

promising  to  become  my  wife  she  had  set  aside  her  opinions, 
or  rather,  in  her  great  love  for  me,  had  ignored  them.  In  her 
great  love  for  me  she  was  prepared  to  go  farther  still.  Would 
I  tell  her  why — when  I  had  told  her  of  many  other  things — I 
had  made  no  mention  of  this  one  girl  ? 

"I  saw  our  'one  gleam  of  hope'  die  out.  I  made  no 
answer. 

"  '  You  were  afraid  of  me  ? '  she  said,  with  an  eagerness  that, 
in  her,  was  pitiful.     *  You  thought  I  would  not  forgive  you  ?  ' 

"  I  told  her  I  had  had  no  such  fear. 

" '  You  thought  that  even  if  I  forgave  you  I  should  think  of 
it  afterwards,  and  that,  rankling,  it  might  destroy  my  faith  in 
you?' 

"  I  said  the  reason  had  not  been  that. 

"  '  Then  what  was  it  ? '  she  said  hopelessly,  for  she  knew  as 
well  as  I  did. 

"  '  I  did  not  tell  you  because  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.' 

"That  settled  things.  She  sat  down  on  one  chair,  I 
remember,  and  grasped  the  back  of  another  with  both  her 
hands. 

"  '  You  have  gone  farther,'  she  said,  '  than  I  feel  justified 
in  following  any  man.  I  cannot  be  false  to  myself,  or  how 
could  I  expect  to  be  true  to  you  ?  Although  I  might  have 
given  myself  to  a  man  who  had  done  a  thing  like  this,  I  could 
not  trust  the  man  who  could  forget  it  when  it  was  done.  I 
should  not  feel  safe.' 

"  I  accepted  her  decision.  I  went  my  way,  and  she  hers. 
I  have  never  seen  her  since." 

Lin  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"  She  never  altered  her  mind  ?  " 

"  If  she  did,  she  never  said  so.  Now,  do  you  see  how 
Heaven  took  up  the  cause  of  the  despised?  I  had  once 
thought  a  girl  too  low  for  my  consideration  ;  the  time  came 
when  a  woman  thought  me  too  low  for  hers.  The  girl  I  had 
forgotten  was  very  well  avenged." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

FOR   OLD  acquaintance'   SAKE 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  I  don't  like  that  goddess  of  yours,"  said  Lin  at  last.  "  1 
am  sure  she  would  have  made  you  a  terribly  exacting  wife." 

"  Perhaps.  I  walked  out  of  my  fool's  paradise,  and  have  nevei 
sought  another.  But  ever  since  I  have  felt  what  it  is  to  be 
shut  out.  I  have  been  like  a  man  who  passes  for  a  millionaire, 
and  knows  himself  for  a  beggar." 

•'  While  there  were  scores  of  women  who  would  have  thought 
it  an  honour  to  share  your  life  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  there  are  '  scores  *  that  a  man  fails 
to  find  the  one ;  perhaps  I  had  no  heart  to  make  the  search  j 
perhaps  I  saw  in  the  whole  matter  a  Hand  against  which  we 
are  jjowerless.  Still,  the  hankering  after  something  to  care 
for,  something  which  should  care  for  me,  never  let  me  alone ; 
and  one  day  as  I  was  passing  through  a  village  in  the  Midlands 
I  saw  a  lovely  little  curly-headed  chap  playing  with  the  dust  and 
stones  in  the  road.  I  fell  in  love  with  the  youngster,  thought 
it  would  be  a  real  good  turn  to  take  him  from  his  sordid 
surroundings  and  bring  him  up  decently.  His  people  demurred 
a  little,  but  money  soon  silenced  them.  I  brought  him  to 
London,  engaged  a  highly  superior  person  to  look  after  him, 
surrounded  him  with  all  a  child  wants,  and  much  that  it  does 
not  want,  but— I  never  succeeded  in  winning  from  that  child 
one  particle  of  affection." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  thing!" 

•'  It  was  all  the  more  extraordinary  because  he  was  really  an 
affectionate  child.  I  tried  him  for  more  than  a  year,  until  he 
had  become  as  distasteful  to  me  as  I  was  to  him.  Then  his 
nurse  married  and  he  fretted  after  her,  refused  to  countenance 
her  successor,  and  became  a  veritable  nightmare  to  me.  As  I 
had  bowed  to  Fate  in  the  matter  of  a  wife,  I  bowed  to  Fate  in 
the  matter  of  the  child.  I  gave  in,  and  wrote  to  the  youngster's 
people  stating  why  I  wished  to  be  relieved  of  him.  My  letter 
was  returned  to  me.    Tempted  by  unaccustomed  money,  the 

3x0 


3for  ©lb  acguafntance'  Saftc  3" 

whole  family  had  emigrated.  After  a  heap  of  trouble  I 
succeeded  in  tracing  them  to  California ;  after  a  heap  more 
trouble  I  found  somebody  who  was  willing  to  take  the  child 
out  to  them.  When  he  got  there  I  had  a  letter  from  his 
father,  who,  having  failed  to  do  any  good,  considerately 
laid  the  blame  upon  me.  He  said  I  had  tempted  them  to 
sell  their  child;  that  the  money  had  been  a  curse  to  them, 
and  that  they  had  never  prospered  since  they  had  touched  it. 
I  can't  tell  you  what  I  spent  in  that  attempt  to  win  a  little 
affection,  because  I  never  knew.  Well,  I  had  turned  my  back 
upon  affection  once,  and  I  was  condemned  thenceforward 
to  seek  it  in  vain." 

"Have  you  not  grown  morbid  over  that  unlucky  recollec- 
tion ?  "  Lin  said  cheerfully.  *'  You  say  you  once  treated  a  girl 
shabbily—" 

"  Very  shabbily,  Lin — worse  than  shabbily." 

"  When  you  were  young,"  pursued  Lin,  unheeding,  "  and 
had  been  spoiled  by  bad  training.  I  know  the  privilege  of 
sex  is  enormous,  and  a  man  ought  to  be  extremely  careful  not 
to  abuse  it.  Still,  he  may  find  that  he  has  made  a  mistake, 
and  it  may  be  more  justifiable  to  'jilt '  a  woman  than  to  marry 
her." 

"  But  the  man  who  even  jilts  a  woman  is  voted  a  cad." 

"When  she  knows  that  he  is  chafing  to  be  free?  Surely 
between  honourable  people  an  understanding  is  all  that  is 
necessary — a  little  straightforward  explanation." 

Le  Quesne  sighed  restlessly.  They  were  getting  wide  of 
the  point  now,  and  he  was  too  cowardly  to  turn  back  to  it. 
Lin  must  learn  the  truth  in  a  different  way. 

"Explanation?"  he  repeated.  "There  are  times,  Lin, 
when  explanation  demands  a  moral  courage  denied  to  the 
average  man.     He  dare  not  explain — he  bolts." 

Lin  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"Well,"  he  said,  rising,  and  beginning  to  pace  the  room, 
"  I  stick  to  my  point.  I  say  that  it  was  no  part  of  Miss  Le 
Breton's  work  in  life  to  pass  sentence  upon  you.  Whatever 
you  might  have  done  worthy  of  rebuke,  it  was  before  you 
knew  her  ;  to  whomsoever  else  you  had  been  false,  to  her  you 
had  been  true." 

Le  Quesne  half  rose,  watching  Lin  with  painful  interest 

"  You  honestly  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  You  would  not  think  it  part  of  your  business  to  take  up 
the  cause  of  another  for  conscience'  sake?    You  would  not 


3X9  Hnnie  Deane 

fight  some  one  else's  battles  if  it  were  against  some  one  for  whom 
you  had  any  love  ?  " 

"  I  am  an  ordinary  person,"  Lin  said  ruefully,  "  and  I  am 
afraid  I  could  not  fight  against  any  one  I  loved,  even  in  the 
cause  of  right."  He  stopped  a  second,  struck  by  the  strained 
expression  of  Le  Quesne's  face.  "  Now,  if  it  were  the  other 
way  about,  I  could  understand  it  I  might  take  up  the  cause 
of  one  I  loved  against  a  stranger,  and  fight  for  it  as  if  it  were 
my  own." 

"  Ah  ! "  His  eager  face  fell.  "  And  if  you  stood  between 
two  people,  both  dear  to  you — how  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  try  to  bring  them  together." 

"  Impossible !     How  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  to  decide  which  side  had  right  upon  it,  and 
take  my  stand  upon  that." 

He  dropped  back  upon  the  couch,  and  turned  his  face  away 
from  Lin. 

"  There  would  be  small  need  for  decision,"  he  said,  "  since 
the  matter  does  not  ;idniit  of  any  doubt." 

Lin  stopped,  and  bent  forward,  trying  to  look  into  the  averted 
face. 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  he  said,  half  banteringly  and 
half  in  earnest.     "  You  are  very  mysterious  to-night." 

The  averted  face  came  slowly  round,  the  dark  eyes,  heavy 
with  painful  tears,  looked  straight  up  into  Lin's. 

"  It's  the  old  story  of  the  missing  moral  courage,  Lin,"  he 
said.    "  Time  will  explain  to  you,  but  I — I  haven't  the  pluck." 

Some  far-off  glimmer  of  the  light  to  come  touched  Lin  at 
that  moment— startled — puzzled — eluded  him,  like  the  touch 
of  an  unseen  hand,  and  then  was  gone,  lost  in  the  intensity 
of  his  faith  in  the  man  beside  him. 

"You  are  down  in  the  dumps  to-night,"  he  said  lightly, 
"and  I  believe  it  is  because  I  am  off  to-morrow.  I  ought  to 
be  off  now,  for  it  is  past  eleven." 

"Just  the  time  of  night  I  hate.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  that 
story  you  spoke  of  just  now.  You  said  you  had  no  right  to 
make  it  public.     Telling  it  to  me  will  not  make  it  so." 

Lin  sat  down  with  knitted  brows  and  an  uncomfortable 
vision  of  Annie's  reproachful  face. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  do  it,"  he  said.  **  My  mother  would 
never  forgive  me  if  she  knew,  but  I  want  you  to  know  what 
love  can  do  for  women  who  are  not  gifted ;  who  do  not  set 
themselves  up  for  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  run ;  who  are 
simply  unselfish  and  womanly.    She  was  only  a  little  peasant 


if  or  ®lt)  Hcqualntance*  Saftc  313 

girl.  She  had  no  advantage  of  any  sort  that  I  can  discover ; 
was  poor  and  ignorant,  and  quite  content  to  remain  so. 
Somehow — I  can't  tell  you  how,  for  I  don't  know — she  came 
in  contact  with  a — a — well,  s?ie  calls  him  a — gentleman." 

"  She  told  you  this  herself?  " 

"Yes.  You  see,  I  was  going  away,  and  was  rash  enough 
to  ask  for  information  concerning  my  paternity.  This — this — 
man  (one  must  call  him  something),  having  amused  himself  in 
his  own  vile  way,  got  clear  away,  leaving  her  neither  name, 
address,  nor  any  clue  to  either  except  a  photograph.  In 
proper  hands  that  might  have  been  of  use,  but  she  kept  it  to 
herself.  She  afterwards  brought  it  to  London,  to  the  place 
where  it  was  taken,  thinking  in  her  ignorance  that  the 
photographer  would  tell  her  who  the  original  was,  and  where 
to  find  him." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  that  photograph  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  asked  to  see  it,  nor  do  I  believe  she  would 
show  it  me  if  I  did.  She  would  be  afraid  that  I  might  try  to 
find  him." 

"  Surely  a  needless  fear  ?  " 

"Perhaps,  and  yet — I  don't  know.  If  I  ever  think  much 
about  it,  I  lose  my  head.  I  sometimes  feel  an  irresistible 
longing  to  see  for  myself  what  the  man  to  whom  that  devilish 
deed  was  possible,  is  like.  From  what  I  can  gather,  he  was 
an  educated  man,  a  man  of  means,  of  an  age  I  should  say  near 
about  my  own ;  but  of  that  I  am  not  sure.  And  he  left  a  child 
of  sixteen  to  face  her  own  ruin  by  the  aid  of  his  photograph 
and  a  sum  of  money.     What  do  you  think  it  was  ?  " 

"  God  knows  ! " 

"  Five  pounds  !  And  sometimes  I  think  that  if  ever  I  am 
face  to  face  with  him  I  will  crush  a  five-pound  note  into  some 
convenient  shape,  and  force  it  down  his  throat,  if  I  hang 
for  it ! " 

Le  Quesne  suddenly  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece.  Lin  spoke  with  a  curious  quietude, 
but  about  the  depth  of  his  feeling  on  the  subject  there  could 
be  no  mistake.     Le  Quesne  made  none. 

"  And  you  think  your  mother  would  thank  you  for  trying  to 
avenge  a  wrong  which  she  has  been  content  to  bear  in  silence  ?  " 

"  No.  I  believe  if  I  were  to  raise  a  hand  against  the  hound 
she  would  hate  me.  For  she  loves  him — has  openly  told  me 
that  I  bear  a  certain  amount  of  resemblance  to  him,  which  has 
made  me  doubly  dear  to  her !  It  is  just  this  part  of  a  very 
unsavoury  story  which  tempted  me  to  tell  the  whole  to  you. 


314  Bnnie  Deane 

I  was  ill  when  I  heard  it  for  the  first  time,  and  it  upset  me 
horribly — upset  me  so  that  I  daresay  some  of  the  points  were 
lost  on  me ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  how  she  pleaded  for  that 
cur,  nor  how  desperate  she  got  when  I  reviled  him.  His  very 
vileness  was  lost  upon  her  because  it  was  his.  He  told  her 
black  was  white,  and  she  believed  him  !  '  He  left  me  plenty  of 
money — he  believed  I  should  have  married  Jim ;  he  didn't 
know  what  I  should  have  to  go  through,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
left  me  to  bear  it.  How  could  he  have  known,  when  I  did  not 
know  myself?  If  I  could  only  have  let  him  know,  he  would 
have  come  back.  He  wasn't  bad ;  he  was  young,  and  didn't 
think ;  but  in  his  heart  he  was  kind  and  good.  I  tell  you  I 
know  he  was.  Lin,  if  you've  ever  cared  anything  about  mg, 
you  mustn't  say  a  word  against  h'm.  I  won't  hear  it*  That 
is  how  she  kept  on ;  and  what  is  more,  she  meant  it  1 " 

**  Yes  ?  "  He  spoke  with  a  touch  of  incredulity.  "  That 
being  so,  is  it  not  strange  that  she  could  not  have  gone  the 
whole  self-sacrificial  length,  and  have  kept  his  infamy  from  you? 
Instead  of  which,  she  seems  to  have  been  careful  to  put  you 
in  possession  of  just  those  points  of  the  history  which  are 
hopelessly  damning  to  him  !  " 

Lin  looked  at  the  speaker  in  surprise. 

"  Knowing  her,  I  don't  think  it  strange.  To  have  done  what 
you  suggest,  she  must  either  have  refused  to  tell  me  what 
it  was  my  right  to  know  or  have  put  me  off  with  a  tissue  of 
lies.  As  to  those  damning  facts  of  the  history,  believe  me,  she 
actually  put  them  forward  in  defence  of  him,  so  little — good 
woman  and  just  as  she  is — is  her  judgment  of  him  to  be 
trusted !  When  she  saw  what  I  thought  of  the  business,  saw 
that  all  defence  of  him  was  out  of  the  question,  she  did 
what  it  seems  to  me  natural  for  your  genuine  woman  to  do. 
She  shut  her  eyes  to  the  sin,  and  stood  prepared  to  stand  by 
the  sinner  through  thick  and  thin !  She  tried  to  make  a 
convert  of  me.  God  forgive  me  for  being  angry  with  her 
that  she  should  think  it  possible!  She  actually  believed 
that  she  could  win  me  over  to  see  that  man  with  her  eyes ; 
to  believe  with  her  that  he  had  sinned  indeed,  but  unin- 
tentionally, unconsciously,  not  realising  the  gravity  of  his 
own  act." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  you  should  refuse  to  be  converted,  for  I 
believe  that  she  is  right." 

Lin  swung  round  on  his  heel  to  face  Le  Quesne. 

"  You — w^ai  ?  "  he  said  blankly. 

"  I  believe  she  is  right." 


3for  ®l&  Hcquatntance'  Safte  315 

"You  don't  mean  it!  You  cannot  mean  that  you — a 
man  of  the  world,  knowing  well  what  things  are — could 
attempt  to  defend  such  a  thing  as  this  ?  For  her  to  try  to 
excuse  the  human  devil  who  ruined  her,  and  left  her  in 
recompense  his  portrait  and  five  pounds,  is  perhaps  com- 
prehensible ;  for  you  to  do  so  is  not  only  incomprehensible — 
it  is  absurd ! " 

"  I  make  no  pretence  of  doing  so.  I  only  say  that  a  woman 
may  be  a  bettter  judge  of  even  a  bad  man  than  you  or  I,  or 
any  other,  save  the  God  who  made  him.  In  fact,  her  judgment 
is  near  akin  to  the  Divine.  '  The  sin  I  hate,  but  the  sinner — 
I  love.'  Can  you  not  see  that  this  is  possible?  For  this 
particular  sin,  who  would  try  to  defend  it  ?  Of  course,  it  was 
brutal." 

"  It  was  not,"  said  Lin  hotly.  "  Give  a  brute  his  due,  and 
don't  malign  him.  He  stays  by  the  brute  he  mates  with. 
In  his  poor,  dumb  brute  fashion  he  defends  her.  He  will 
even  lose  his  life  for  her,  and  he  will  do  his  best  for  his 
helpless  brute  cubs,  until  the  time  has  come  when  instinct 
teaches  him  that  they  can  do  without  him.  But  this  con- 
temptible thing,  with  brains  to  tell  him  right  from  wrong,  and 
education  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  his  mistaking  the  one 
for  the  other,  slunk  away,  and  left  a  child  not  seventeen  to 
find  her  way  through  difficulties  which  might  well — had  she 
but  realised  the  nature  of  them — have  made  her  give  herself 
up  to  despair  and  the  river.  And  yet  you  are  so  extra 
merciful,  you  would  like  to  think  that  he  did  not  know  what 
he  was  doing  1  I  think  he  did  know  very  well,  for  he  took 
excellent  care  to  get  clear  away,  leaving  no  trace  behind  him. 
You  may  have  wondered  why  I  was  so  hard  upon  this  un- 
recognised *  crime '  the  other  night.  Now  you  know.  Of 
course,  you  cannot  see  it  as  I  do.  It  has  never  come  home  to 
you,  so  you  can't  be  expected  to  feel  it.  But  if  this  thing  had 
happened  to  anyone  you  cared  for — by  George  1  you  would 
feel  it  then  !  You  would  not  stop  to  consider  whether  or 
not  this  man  was  quite  sure  of  what  he  did.  It  would  be 
enough  for  you  that  he  did  it,  and  the  thought  of  him  would 
raise  the  devil  in  you,  as  it  does  in  me." 

His  elbow  resting  on  the  mantelpiece,  his  white  face  resting 
on  his  hand,  Le  Quesne  stood  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

"  You  say  she  knows  now  who  the  man  is  ? "  he  asked  at 
length,  without  shifting  his  position. 

"  Yes,  she  has  since  found  out." 

"  You  do  not  know — how  ?  " 


3i6  Biinie  Deaitc 

"  I  did  not  ask.  I  lost  all  patience,  and  preferred  to  know 
nothing  more  about  him.  I  think  she  put  forward  some  extra- 
ordinary idea  of  her  own,  that  as  she  had  sinned  once  and  been 
sorry  for  it  ever  since — so  had  he.  It  exasperated  me  beyond 
expression.  Her  atonement  has  been  made  before  all  the 
wjrld.  If  he  has  been  moved  by  any  desire  to  atone,  he  has 
had  four-and-twenty  years  to  do  it  in,  and  has  never  made  a 
sign.     I  think  that  speaks  for  itself," 

"  Are  you  sure  he  has  made  no  sign  ?  He  may  have  tried 
to  find  her,  and  failed." 

"  May  have  tried  !  Are  there  no  newspapers  ?  Are  there 
no  such  things  in  them  as  advertisements  ?  Or,  if  so  much 
publicity  were  distasteful  to  such  a  delicate  mind  as  his,  are 
there  no  Private  Inquiry  Offices  ?  Don't  tell  me  about  a  man 
•failing'  to  find  any  woman  who  is  alive,  and  not  in  hiding. 
You  seem  to  be  infected  with  my  mother's  desire  to  handle 
this  particular  criminal  apologetically.  It  wouldn't  take  much 
to  prove  to  you  that  he  was  no  criminal  at  all." 

"  You  are  out  of  temper,  and,  in  consequence,  unreasonable." 

"  That  is  very  likely.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  never 
willingly  think  of  him  ?  I  have  not ;  it  won't  do.  More  than 
once  I  have  been  startled  to  find  how  much  of  the  devil  there 
is  in  a  man  ;  even  in  an  ordinary  man  such  as  I.  Do  you  know 
that  at  first  I  used  to  dream  about  him — dream  that  I  had  him 
in  my  grip  ?  and  I  have  knelt  on  him — stabbed  at  him — shaken 
the  vile  breath  out  of  him — choked  him  with  my  naked  hands 
— ^have  watched  him  gasp  until  there  was  no  breath  left  in  him 
to  gasp  with,  and  then  I  have  let  him  go  for — dead  !  Oh  !  it  is 
no  fiction.  When  I  think  of  that  man  all  the  good  in  me 
takes  flight,  and  there  is  nothing  but  a  vengeful  devil  left." 

Le  Quesne  stood  upright  There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes 
which  told  that  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  self-control.  He  put 
one  shaky  hand  in  front  of  Lin's  distorted  young  face. 

"  Don't  say  any  more,"  he  said,  speaking  with  difficulty,  for 
his  lips  were  stiff  and  dry,  "  1  can't  bear  it.  I  have  associated 
you  with  all  that  is  good  and  merciful.  If  it  is  in  you  to  be 
anything  else,  I  don't  want  to  know  it.  You  have  become 
dearer  to  me,  more  necessary  to  me,  than  you  know,  and  I 
cannot  stand  that  look  upon  your  face.  On  your  own  showing, 
it  is  as  distasteful  to  your  mother  as  it  is  to  me.  She  has  lived 
longer  than  you  have,  and  has  come  nearer  to  the  truth.  She 
knows  that  life  is  not  long  enough  for  us  to  go  out  of  our  way  to 
punish  other  people's  sins.  It  is  enough  for  us  that  we  try 
to  atone  for  our  own.     Let  us  do  that,  and  be  content." 


3for  ®l&  Bcquafntancc*  Safte  317 

Lin  felt  "  pulled  up,"  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself,  but  was  too  obstinate  to  give  way. 

"  My  mother !  "  he  said,  still  angrily  ;  "  where  is  the  value 
of  her  judgment  as  far  as  he  is  concerned?  She  loves  the 
worthless  wretch,  thinks  kindly  of  him,  prays  for  him!  Ah  !  I 
dare  swear  has  prayed  for  him  night  and  day  these  five-and- 
twenty  years." 

"  A  good  woman's  prayers  have  been  worth  his  having,  Lin. 
Don't  grudge  him  them,  since  they  have  taken  nothing  away 
from  you.  I  am  sure  if  he  knew,  reprobate  as  he  is,  he  would 
neither  scoff  at  the  prayers  nor  be  ungrateful  to  the  noble 
woman  who,  in  spite  of  all  her  wrongs,  could  think  him  not 
past  praying  for.  When  you  said  once  that  with  regard  to  your 
mother's  goodness  I,  with  the  rest,  was  sceptical,  you  were 
right.  I  was.  I  am  not  now.  I  am  sure  she  is  a  good 
woman.  So  far  from  reviling  the  man  who  left  her,  I  think 
you  can  afford  to  pity  him,  seeing  that  in  his  ignorance  he, 

•*  '  Like  the  base  Judean,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe.' " 

Lin's  anger-pale  face  cleared  and  lit  up. 

'*  It  is  awfully  good  of  you  to  say  that,"  he  said  gratefully, 
"  and  I  know  you  would  not  say  it  unless  you  meant  it.  She 
is  a  good  woman,  let  who  may  doubt  it.  Your  goddess  might 
preach  and  lay  down  rigid  lines  for  other  people  to  follow,  but 
she  would  have  sent  three  out  of  four  men  to  the  devil.  Just 
look  at  the  time  !  I  meant  to  have  left  while  the  shops 
were  still  open,  and  here  is  the  result — 12.30  !  To-morrow  is 
my  mother's  birthday,  and  I  always  give  her  something.  I 
shall  have  to  buy  the  'something'  to-morrow  morning  on  my 
way  to  the  station,  and  trust  to  it  being  sent  home." 

"  What  do  you  give  her  ?  " 

"  Ah !  there's  the  puzzle  !  It  is  difficult  to  find  anything 
acceptable  to  a  woman  so  absolutely  detached  from  personal 
possessions.  For  books  she  has  little  taste,  while  as  for  orna- 
ments— I  have  never  seen  her  wear  anything  but  a  little  gold 
brooch,  a  sort  of  Maltese  cross,  the  sight  of  which  is  an 
abomination  to  me  because,  I  believe — mind,  I  only  believe- 
that  God-forsaken  scoundrel  gave  it  her." 

"  Pray,  leave  him  alone." 

"  I  can't." 

"  Then  speak  of  him  less  savagely." 

"  Why  ?     You  would  not  have  me  call  him  a  man  ?  " 


3i8  Unnic  2)eanc 

"  Why  not  ?  I  should  like  to  know  in  what  way  you  think 
of  him — what  shape  he  takes  to  your  mental  fancy." 

"  He  has  no  shape.  He  is  unreal — intangible — an  uncanny, 
inhuman  horror ! — like  the  *  thing '  in  Poe's  poem  that  is 
*  neither  brute  nor  human ' 

but  a  ghoul,  or  the  soulless  incarnation  of  Self  in  Lytton's 
mystic  story." 

"  Poor  devil !  Who,  wherever  he  is  to-night,  is  just  an 
ordinary  human  thing,  like  you  and — me." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  believe  that  if  I  stood  face  to  face 
with  him  I  should  know  him  for  no  '  ordinary '  man.  I  should 
know  him  by  the  look  in  his  eyes,  by  the  very  touch  of  his 
hand." 

Le  Quesne  thought  a  moment,  then  suddenly  faced  about 

"So  you  think  fhaf?"  he  said,  as,  looking  Lin  straight  in 
the  face,  he  slowly — very  slowly — held  out  his  hand. 

As  the  two  hands  met,  one  warm  with  vigorous  young  life, 
the  other  damp  and  chill,  an  odd  electric  shiver  flashed  through 
Lin  from  brow  to  heel,  and  back  again.  He  gave  himself  a 
shake,  laughing,  as  he  did  so,  the  slight  nervous  laugh  of 
embarrassment. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  think  I'm  a  beast,"  he  said  apologetically, 
"  and  I  must  be  for  harassing  you.  You  are  as  white  as  death, 
and  your  hand  is  like  ice.  The  touch  of  it  has  sent  me  cold. 
I  am  sorry  to  go,  leaving  such  a  bad  impression  behind  me. 
Never  mind  ;  when  I  come  back  I  will  try  to  make  up  for  it." 

"  Stop  one  moment.  If  to-morrow  is  your  mother's  birthday, 
it  is  yours." 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  let  me  give  you  something  ?  Oh !  don't  be 
afraid,  it  is  nothing  of  any  value.  Only  the  sleeve-links  that 
have  been  wherever  /  have  been  for  the  last  thirty  years. 
When  I  was  young  and  superstitious,  I  always  wore  them  when 
making  any  fresh  venture,  even  if  I  were  singing  a  new  song. 
My  '  luck '  has  departed.     I  should  like  to  hand  it  on  to  you." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  links  from  his  sleeves  and  held  them 
out. 

"  Will  you  take  your  mother  a  message  ?  Will  you  tell  her 
that  I  could  not  send  her  anything  but  my  best  thanks  for 
lending  me — you  f  That  the  man  who  has  had  so  much  that  the 
world  counts  good  has  come  to  be  indebted  to  her  for  the  best 
thing  he  has  found  in  all  his  varied  experience?  I  might 
apologise  to  her  for  monopolising  you,  but  I  am  afraid  my 
apolugits  now  come  too  late  to  meet  with  any  acceptance." 


if  or  ©l&  HcQualntance*  Safte  319 

"I  cannot  take  her  such  a  mysterious  message.  She 
wouldn't  understand  it." 

"She  will  understand  it  perfectly." 

"  Very  well.  Wire  me  to-morrow  night  just  to  let  me  know 
you  are  all  right." 

"  If  you  wish  it — of  course  I  will." 


Before  Lin  left  for  the  North  he  gave  his  mother  that 
"  mysterious  "  message. 

Her  face  flushed  suddenly,  a  clear  bright  red,  which  as 
suddenly  died  away. 

"  There's  the  message,"  said  Lin,  busily  tightening  the 
straps  of  his  portmanteau,  "  and  if  you  can  make  head  or  tail 
of  it,  why,  I  can't — except,  of  course,  that  it  is  highly  flattering 
to  me.  Now,  when  you  go  into  my  room,  the  first  thing  you 
have  to  do  is  to  feel  in  the  pocket  of  the  waistcoat  I  took  off 
last  night." 

"  It  was  momin',  dear,"  she  said  gently. 

"  I  expect  it  was.  Never  mind.  You  will  find  some 
sleeve-links  in  that  pocket.  I  dare  not  wear  them  for  fear 
of  losing  them.     Will  you  put  them  away  ?  " 

She  nodded  and  went  upstairs  as  Lin  left  the  house. 

"It  was  darin'  of  him  to  send  me  that  message,"  she 
thought  to  herself  as  she  went.  "  He'll  get  too  darin'  if  he 
doesn't  mind.  But  it  was  good  of  him,  too.  All  these  years 
I've  prayed  that  if  ever  he  come  to  want  anything  done,  it 
might  be  give  to  me  to  do  it.  Who'd  have  thought  that  ever 
he'd  have  come  to  be  alone  in  the  world  if  'twasn't  for  my 
boy  ?  I  can  scarce  believe  it — sometimes.  '  He've  come  to 
be  in  debt  to  me  for  the  best  thing  he've  ever  found '  1  For  all 
I've  suff"ered,  I've  got  my  reward." 

Lifting  Lin's  waistcoat  from  the  peg  whereon  it  hung,  she 
took  the  links  from  the  pocket.  One  half-incredulous  look  at 
them,  and  then  they  were  pressed  to  her  cheek,  while  the 
tears  rained  down  upon  them  thick  and  fast,  for  old  acquaint- 
ance' sake.  In  the  long  ago,  when  they  had  lain  against  his 
warm  brown  wrists,  the  monogram  upon  them  had  so  sorely 
puzzled  her  !  Some  of  the  delicate  lines  were  half  effaced 
now,  the  centre  of  each  little  oval  plate  depressed  by  constant 
use  and  the  sharp  twists  of  nervous,  impatient  fingers. 

Oh  !  poor  little  worn,  half-worthless,  wholly-priceless  things, 
at  once  so  -lumb  and  eloquent — how  bitterly  she  cried  over 
them  as  she  carried  them  up  to  put  them  away  1 


CHAPTER      XXXVl 

**  AFTER   LONG  YEARS  " 

A  FEW  days  more  and  Lin  had  turned  his  back  upon  the 
profession  he  loved  well  for  the  sake  of  the  man  he  loved  better, 
without  a  backward  look  or  a  selfish  thought  of  the  morrow. 
Le  Quesne  and  he  were  going  to  the  coast. 

"Not  far  away,"  Dr.  Helston  had  said,  as  he  gave  the 
long-delayed  permission.  "  Somewhere  handy,  so  that  I  can 
run  down  now  and  then  to  give  you  a  look.  Brighton,  if  you 
like,  or  the  Isle  of  Wight." 

"  The  Island  for  preference,"  Le  Quesne  had  said  at  once. 

So  Lin  had  written  here  and  there,  making  all  arrangements, 
looking  forward  with  tranquil  pleasure  to  the  days  they  would 
spend  together  on  the  yacht,  while  the  shores  of  the  Island 
looked  fair  as  a  dream  in  the  shimmering  haze  of  the  drowsy 
noons,  and  the  sea  lay  blue  by  Haslar. 

His  patient  had  improved.  Even  under  the  ordeal  of  an 
operation,  to  which  was  attached  little  of  solid  hope  but  much 
of  immediate  comfort,  he  had  not  lost  ground. 

"  I  never  meant  to  have  had  it  done,"  he  told  Lin  afterwards. 
"  I  never  meant  to  have  grasped  at  a  straw  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  months'  life." 

One  thing  weighed  heavily  upon  him — the  thought  of  Annie. 
He  ought  to  see  her ;  he  must  see  her ;  he  had  no  right  to  go 
away  until  he  had  seen  her.  Once  he  had  shrunk  from  the 
thought  of  her,  had  said,  like  Peter  of  old,  "Lord,  how  can 
I  touch  this  thing,  seeing  that  it  is  common  and  unclean  ?  " 
Now  he  saw  that  he  had  applied  the  contemptuous  epithets  to 
a  thing  far  higher  than  himself — an  unpleasant  reflection  and 
liumiliating,  but  one  which  compelled  him  and  asked  him 
sternly  what  he  meant  to  do.  He  could  but  think  of  her, 
could  but  marvel  at  her  faith  in  him,  seeing  that  it  was  a  thing 
for  which  she  had  so  little  excuse !  She  had  seen  Lin  turn  his 
back  upon  his  very  living  for  the  sake  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
every  reason  to  mistrust  and  fear,  and  still — she  held  her  peacei 

.^20 


"Htter  %om  l^ears"  3«i 

One  word  from  her  to  Lin,  and  all  her  wrongs  could  be 
avenged ;  but  she  spoke  no  such  word.  She  would  be  of  use  to 
him ;  she  would  strive  to  brighten  his  pathway  to  the  grave 
with  the  comj-anionship  of  the  son  who  owed  him  nothing 
save  a  nameless  life ;  but  of  recompense  said  she  never  a  word. 
Is  there  any  wonder  that  as  he  thought  of  her  he  writhed  in 
sheer  disgust  of  himself?  That  he  began  to  feel  he  must  tell 
her  how  her  magnificent  faith  in  him  had  touched  him  ?  That 
in  the  first  flush  of  this  new  gratitude,  this  tardy  comprehension 
of  her,  he  overshot  the  mark  ;  and  from  thinking  her  much 
lower  than  she  ever  had  been,  he  made  of  her  something 
higher  than  she  really  was  ? 

"  Lin,"  he  said  abruptly  one  morning,  "  does  your  mother 
know  we  are  going  away  ?  " 

"  In  a  general  way — yes.     I  have  not  yet  told  her  when." 

"  Well,  seeing  that  we  go  on  Monday,  and  here  is  Friday, 
you  are  rather  slow,  aren't  you  ?    How  will  you  let  her  know?  " 

"  Oh,  I  must  go — if  only  to  see  the  dear  old  man.  He  is 
very  feeble,  and  at  his  age  there  is  no  certainty  in  things." 

"  But  I  want  to  see  your  mother  myself." 

**  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  want,"  Lin  said,  laughing. 
"  You  would  frighten  her  out  of  her  wits,  or  make  her  ill  for  a 
week." 

"  Surely  you  are  exaggerating  her  diffidence  ?  I  mean  to  see 
her,  in  spite  of  all  you  can  say.  Pass  me  the  blotting-pad.  I'll 
write  to  her  now." 

Half-vexed  and  half-amused,  Lin  obeyed  orders.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  the  note  was  sealed. 

"  Was  your  correspondence  always  so  remarkable  for 
brevity  ?  " 

"  I  think  more  remarkable  for  that  than  anything.  Oh, 
kindly  pass  that  back  again  !  I  have  another  note  to  write — 
to  Miss  Le  Breton.  She  is  in  London,  and  I  had  a  letter 
from  her  this  morning.     She  wants  to  see  me." 

"  You  will  see  her  ?  "  said  Lin  slowly. 

"iVb.  But  I  have  some  songs  in  MS.,  for  which  I  once 
promised  a  dying  lad  to  obtain  a  heaiing.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  introduce  them  myself.  I  want  to  ask  her  to  do  it  in 
my  stead,  and  I  want  ^<?tt  to  take  them  to  her." 

"  Which  I  would  much  rather  not  do,  unless  you  can  show 
me  good  reason." 

•'  The  MS.  is  a  sacred  trust.  I  don't  care  to  send  it  through 
the  post." 

"  II  would  be  perfectly  safe  with  Harker.'^ 

X 


3a«  'Bnnlc  H)canc 

"Per'iaps.  I  want  you  to  take  it.  I  want  you  to  know 
this  lady.  You  are  narrow,  and  must  be  widened  for  your  own 
good." 

•'  If  tliat  is  the  best  reason  you  have  for  sending  me,  I  shall 
decline  .:o  go.    By  George  !  you  are  more  forgiving  than  I  am." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  Miss  Le  Breton  chose  to  stick 
to  her  principles  rather  than  to  me,  that  is  all." 

"  Thit  ought  to  be  enough  for  you." 

"  It  ts  enough — to  make  me  respect  her.  You  will  do  this 
for  me,  Lin  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not" 

"  It  isn't  much." 

"  To  me — it  is  a  great  deal." 

"  But  if  I  make  a  point  of  it  ?  If  I  ask  you  to  do  this 
simply  to  please  me  ?  " 

Lin  stood,  considering. 

"  Since  you  put  it  in  that  way,"  he  said  quietly,  "  of  course, 
I  can't  refuse." 

Le  Quesne  lay  back  in  his  chair  with  a  satisfied  smile. 

"God  forgive  me,"  he  thought  to  himself,  *'  but  it  is  yery  /i/e 
;o  me  to  see  how  much  I  can  make  him  do  that  he  doesn't 
want  to  do !  " 

By  that  afternoon's  post  Annie  received  this  brief 
communication : — 

"Will  you  come  and  see  me  here  to-morrow,  at  three?  I 
will  try  to  send  Lin  out  of  the  way ;  but  as  he  knows  I  am 
writing  to  ask  you  for  an  interview,  you  need  fear  nothing 
should  you  meet  him  here.  In  any  case,  I  must  see  you.  We 
are  going  away,  and  one  of  us  may  not  come  back." 

She  put  the  note  in  her  pocket,  and  sat  down  to  consider 
its  contents. 

"  I  can't  say  '  No'  to  that,"  she  said  to  herself  at  last ; 
"  however  I'll  stan'  havin'  to  face  him  an'  yet  keep  hold  o'  myself 
I  don't  know,  but  I  can't  say  '  No.'  I  must  go.  If  ever  I've 
had  a  heart  an'  he've  had  a  place  in  it,  I'll  pray  God  for  them 
two  or  three  hours  to-morrow  to  turn  it  into  stone,  or  the 
sight  of  him '11  kill  me." 

A  glorious  June  afternoon,  golden  and  cloudless  without, 
oppressive  and  enervating  within.  With  lowered  blinds  and 
windows  widely  opened  to  the  air,  Le  Quesne  sat  in  his  big, 


"Htter  %om  l^ears"  3»3 

luxurious  room  alone,  waiting  for  Annie  Deane — now  hoping 
she  would  come,  and  then  hoping  she  would  not ;  now  telling 
himself  that  she  would  not  refuse  any  request  of  his,  and  then 
wondering  why  she  should  comply,  but  ever  growing  more 
nervous  and  restless  as  the  time  drew  nearer  to  the  appointed 
hour.  Five  minutes  to  three.  He  rose,  walked  the  length  of 
the  room,  paused  to  listen  to  faint  steps — first  on  the  stairs, 
then  in  the  passage  outside — heard  Harker's  familiar  rap  at 
his  door,  wheeled  round  so  as  not  to  face  it  as  it  opened, 
heard  it  open  and  close,  and  knew  that  his  visitor  was  awaiting 
his  notice. 

She  stood  just  inside  the  big,  dim  room,  trembling  and 
confused.  It  was  very  dim  to  her,  coming  as  she  did 
straight  from  the  glaring  street,  so  dim  that  at  first  she 
did  not  see  the  tall  figure  standing  within  a  few  feet  of 
her.  But  she  felt  its  presence,  and,  shading  her  eyes,  looked 
helplessly  about  her.  The  result  was  not  reassuring.  She 
felt  as  might  some  street-waif  who  has  stumbled  unawares 
into  a  church — she  was  oppressed  by  unaccustomed  space,  by 
nobility  of  line  and  detail.  The  brilliant  pyramids  of  bloom 
and  foliage,  the  gleam  of  marble  limbs  half-hidden  by  palm 
and  fern,  the  glow  of  colour  from  a  few  perfect  pictures  per- 
fectly hung,  the  tables  and  cabinets  full  of  costly  trifles,  the 
luxury — luxury  everywhere — humiliated  her.  She  felt  so  cruelly 
out  of  place  in  that  splendid  room  that  she  could  have  dropped 
into  the  first  chair  she  came  to,  and  have  burst  into  childish 
tears.  In  the  brief  pause  that  followed  the  closing  of  the 
door  behind  her,  Annie  Deane  went  back  to  her  girlhood,  and 
the  value  of  her  after  experiences  was  for  the  time  being  lost, 
banished  into  obscurity  by  the  light  from  one  great  truth — 
between  her  and  the  man  to  whom  life  in  a  place  like  this 
was  a  matter  of  course  there  must  ever  be  a  gulf  fixed.  She 
was  of  one  world — he  of  another.  Of  what  avail  was  her 
nobility  of  mind,  her  laboriously-attained  purity  of  soul ! 
Though  this  man  might  know  these  things  were  hers,  such 
knowledge  was  powerless  to  make  of  her  in  his  eyes  the 
one  thing  she  had  craved  to  be — a  woman  to  be  loved. 
Night  after  night  in  the  long  years  gone  had  she  lain  awake 
planning  in  her  own  mind  what  she  would  say  to  him  if  they 
should  ever  again  stand  face  to  face.  They  stood  so  now,  and 
lo  !  they  instantly  fell  back  into  the  old  hopeless  position. 
She  was  simply  a  shrinking  peasant  woman,  with  awkward 
manner  and  halting  speech  ;  he  was  Lindsay  Le  Quesne,  a  man 


334  Bnnie  IDeane 

with  whom  she  could  never  hope  to  stand  on  equal  terms 
because  he  was  a  gentleman  ! 

Growing  accustomed  to  the  subdued  light,  Annie  became 
aware  that  he  was  looking  at  her.  She  put  up  her  veil  and 
looked  at  him.  For  one  moment  they  met  on  common  ground, 
for  the  thought  in  the  minds  of  both  was  the  same — they  heartily 
pitied  each  other  as  the  helpless  victims  of  Custom 
exemplified  by  Class.  If  Le  Quesne  had  desired  to  assume 
the  r6le  of  suppliant,  he  had  to  subordinate  such  desire  to  his 
natural  instinct  of  courtesy.  It  only  remained  for  him  to  try  to 
put  his  shrinking  visitor  at  her  ease. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come  to  me,"  he  said,  making  no 
attempt  to  shake  hands  with  her,  because  he  could  see  that  she 
did  not  wish  it.  In  truth,  her  hands  were  too  hot  to  be  pleasant 
to  the  touch  of  refinement.  "  I  hoped  you  would  have  come 
without  being  asked,  but  I  have  waited  in  vain  for  a  sign  from 
you,  and  now  could  wait  no  longer.    We  leave  on  Monday." 

She  sat  down  on  the  chair  he  placed  for  her — stupid — 
speechless — wretched  ;  fighting  hard  for  self-possession,  fearing 
every  second  that  she  would  burst  into  tears.  The  great 
opportunity  of  her  life  was  within  her  grasp,  and  she  saw  it 
slipping  past  her  unsecured.  The  only  desire  she  had  was  the 
desire  to  get  back  to  her  own  world,  the  world  in  which  this 
man  had  no  place.  Ever  gentle  in  his  manner  to  women,  he 
did  not  hurry  her,  merely  explained  in  quiet,  indifferent  fashion 
that  he  had  sent  Lin  to  see  an  old  friend  of  his,  and  to 
apologise  for  his  being  unable  to  bid  her  a  personal  farewell. 
He  knew  enough  of  women  to  know  that  if  anything  he  could 
say  could  give  Annie  back  her  grip  of  herself  it  would  be 
something  concerning  another  woman.  He  was  right.  She 
found  her  voice. 

"  Why  did  you  want  to  see  me  ?  "  she  said  quietly. 

"  Why,  rather,  did  you  not  want  to  see  me  ? "  asked  he, 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  mantelpiece  just  beside  her.  It 
was  necessary  to  be  near  her,  for  he  had  very  little  voice  left 
now. 

"  I  couldn't  see  as  there  wus  any  need  for  it." 

"  Couldn't  you  ?  For  myself — you  might  well  have  wished 
to  avoid  me ;  but  what  al  out  Lin  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  about  Lin  ?  " 

*'  You  must  have  been  anxious  on  his  account?" 

"  Not  at  all.     Why  should  I  be  ?  " 

"  You  could  not  have  thought  him  very  safe  with 
me?" 


**  after  %om  l^cars"  325 

"  My  Lin'd  be  safe  with  anybody.  You  couldn't  harm  him, 
an'  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  try." 

"  You  have  seen  him  turn  his  back  upon  his  living  for 
my  sake  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  know  that  I  have  never  made  any  mention  of 
recompensing  him  for  his  sacrifice  ?  It  is  a  sacrifice  of 
something  more  than  time,  of  something  more  than  money, 
of  something  more  than  the  growing  reputation  which  was 
the  dearest  thing  in  life  to  him.  It  means  the  liberty  of  his 
days  and  the  loss  of  his  rest  at  night,  for  he  is  a  slave  to  me. 
What  is  he  to  get  in  return  ?  " 

"  He've  never  said,  an'  I've  never  ast  him." 

"  But  you  must  have  thought  about  it  ?  " 

She  was  getting  back  her  self-possession;  she  spoke  with 
even  a  touch  of  dignity  : 

"  I  haven't  troubled,  an'  no  more  have  he." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  you  have 
trusted  me  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  she  answered  steadily,  "that  it  have  been 
enough  for  me  to  know  that  Lin  have  bin  some  good  to  you. 
As  to  recompense — when  you  sent  me  that  message  about  him 
the  other  day,  I  had  more  than  enough.  He  was  the  best 
thing  as  you'd  found  in  all  your  life,  an'  God  had  let  me  give  it 
you.  Wusn't  that  enough  ?  I  thought  you  understood,  or  why 
should  you  ha'  sent  me  that  message  ?  " 

"  I  did  understand.  How  could  I  know  Lin  and  hear  him 
talk  of  you  without  understanding?  But  you  are  different. 
You  know  nothing  but  bad  of  me,  and  yet  you  let  Lin  stay 
with  me." 

"  If  you'd  bin  nothink  but  bad,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  my 
Lin'd  never  ha'  took  to  you — nor  you  to  him.  He've  not  said 
very  much  about  you,  but  what  he  have  said  have  bin  enough 
to  tell  me  that  whatever  else  he  got  from  bein'  with  you^  he 
wouldn't  get  no  harm." 

"  And  yet  I  was  a  devil  to  you  !  " 

"  You  wus  young,  an'  so  wus  I.     God  forgive  us  both." 

He  paced  the  room  two  or  three  times,  then  came  back  to  his 
place  by  the  mantelpiece,  still  standing  behind  her  chair. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  my  name  ?  " 

"Since  Lin  was  about  five.  I  found  it  out  accidental.  I 
never  tried  to  find  it  out  after — just  at  first." 

"  But  why,  when  you  had  found  out,  did  you  never  let  me 
know  of  Lin's  existence?    Oh,  I  know  you  had  little  reason  to 


396  Bnnte  2)eane 

suppose  I  should  have  troubled  about  it,  but  you  might  have 
tried  me ;  you  might  have  given  me  the  chance  to  make 
you  some  amends.  If  I  had  not  availed  myself  of  it,  that  sin 
would  have  lain  at  my  door.  I  suppose  you  thought  it  too 
forlorn  a  hope  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't.  I  always  believed  you'd  ha'  done  somethink 
for  the  boy  if  you'd  knowed  about  hira." 

"Do  you  know  that  I  once  went  down  into  Berkshire  to 
make  inquiries  about  you  ?  " 

'*  No  ;  I  never  heard  as  you  done  that." 

"  I  saw  your  sister,  Mrs.  Drake.  She  told  me  that  the  child 
was  dead,  and  that  you  had  emigrated.  Why  she  should  have 
charged  her  soul  with  the  burden  of  such  a  lie,  God  knows  ;  I 
don't." 

Annie  turned  a  shade  or  two  paler. 

"  Alice  never  liked  me,"  she  said  patiently.  "  I've  had 
niore'n  one  proof  of  that.  It  doesn't  matter  now.  How  long 
is  that  ago  ?  " 

*'  Eighteen  years.  If  you  believed  that  I  should  have 
owned  the  child,  why  did  you  not  give  me  the  chance  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  same  time  as  I  learnt  who  you  wus,  I  learnt,  too, 
as  you  wus  goin'  to  get  married.  To  ha'  come  to  you,  //^«, 
would  ha'  bin  a  bitter  cruel  thing  to  do.  I  couldn't  ha'  done 
it." 

"  Most  women  would  have  done  it.  You  know  that  I  was 
nof  married  ?  " 

"I  heard  so,  but  not  till  some  time  after,  when  Lin  was 
gettin'  big  enough  to  know." 

"  All  the  time  you  were  working  for  him,  did  it  never  occur 
to  you  that  you  were,  after  all,  standing  in  the  boy's  light? 
That  you  were  with  infinite  trouble  doing  less  for  him  than  I 
could  have  done  with  no  trouble  at  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  You  could  ha'  done  better  for  him  than 
me,  an'  I  dessay  I  wus  selfish.  But  if  I'd  only  had  myself  to 
work  for,  work'd  ha'  gone  harder  wi'  me  than  it  did.  As  long 
as  I'd  got  him  I  didn't  mind ;  I  couldn't  a-bear  the  thought  o' 
partin'  with  him." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  should  have  asked  you  to  part  with 
him?» 

"  I  couldn't  ha'  helped  myself,"  she  answered  steadily,  "  no 
more  could  you.  Either  Lin  must  ha'  bin  your  son  or  he 
must  ha'  bin  mine.     He  couldn't  ha'  belonged  to  us  dofA." 

"  Why  could  he  not  ?  " 

*'  You  wus  one  thing  an'  me  another.     A  boy  with  his  father 


**Htter  Xona  l^cara"  327 

a  gentleman  an'  his  mother  in  service  would  scarce  ha'  knowed 
what  to  make  of  hisself,  would  he  ?  " 

•*  Do  you  suppose  that  I  should  have  allowed  the  mother 
of  my  son  to  be  '  in  service  '  ?  " 

Her  pale  face  turned  slowly  scarlet. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  don't,  an'  that's  one  reason  why  I  never 
sent  to  you.  It  wasn't  all  selfishness.  Don't  think  I'm 
meanin'  to  speak  out  o'  place — please  donU  think  that,  but 
onless  I  speak  plain  I  shan't  be  able  to  make  you  see  why  1 
never  ast  you  for  no  help.  I  knowed  as  you'd  have  provided 
for  the  boy,  an'  I  knowed  as  you'd  have  wanted  to  provide  for 
me,  too.  How  could  I  ha'  touched  your  money  and  yet  made 
out  to  myself  that  I  wus  tryin'  to  get  back  to  what  was  right  ? 
I  could  only  do  that  by  earnin'  my  own  livin'.  It  wusn't  for 
me  to  hanker  after  you,  as  I  shouldha!  done  if  we'd  bin  brought 
together  agen  about  the  boy ;  it  wusn't  for  me  to  think  any 
more  o'  you,  except  to  pray  that  God  would  bless  you  and 
show  you  the  wrong  o'  what  we'd  done  as  plain  as  He'd  showed 
it  to  me.  I  wus  afraid  to  come  near  you  for  fear  o'  bein' 
tempted ;  an'  thafs  the  truth  o'  why  I  never  let  you  know 
about  the  boy." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  in  bitter  shame  and 
contrition.  This  was  the  thing  from  which  he  had  shrunk, 
as  a  thing  that  was  "common  and  unclean  "  ! 

"  Oh,  woman  I "  he  burst  out  bitterly,  "  why  was  I  too 
blind  to  see  what  you  were  years  ago?  I  should  not  then 
have  put  a  millstone  about  my  neck  that  ever  since  has 
weighed  me  to  the  earth  ! " 

*'  You  couldn't  ha'  seen  what  there  wusn't  to  see,"  she  said, 
a  trifle  bitterly  too.  "  I  wus  what  you  took  me  for  then — 
nothink  better.  All  I  knows  I've  learnt  since.  P'r'aps  the 
burden  you've  carried  have  made  you  a  better  man,  as  mine 
have  made  me  a  better  woman.  It  have  made  me  think  o* 
many  things.  It  wus  just  their  tellin'  me  as  I  was  a  ruined 
woman  that  made  me  determined  to  show  I  wusn't — that. 
If  God  had  told  me  I  wus,  I'd  have  abided  by  what  He  said  j 
but  He  doesn't — anywhere.  It's  men  that  is  merciless — not 
Him.  So  I  went  by  what  He  said,  an'  not  by  what  they  said  j 
an'  as  long  as  I  can  answer  for  myself  to  Him,  they  are  welcome 
to  say  an'  to  think  what  they  likes." 

"  A  ruined  woman  ! "  he  repeated  wearily.  **  You  were  a 
child.     It  was  my  sin — not  yours." 

She  shook  her  head  in  her  old  obstinate  way. 

"  I've  thought  about  that  too,  an'  I'd  like  to  ease  your  mind 


328  Hnnfc  IDcane 

about  it,  if  T  can.  You  wus  but  a  boy,  and  I,  in  my  ignorance, 
tempted  you  in  a  way  I  didn't  understand  Don't  think  bad 
of  me  for  sayin'  this — it's  true.  I  didn't  see  it  then ;  I've  seen 
it  since" 

"  Your  very  ignorance  should  have  protected  you." 

"Wus  you  to  know  it  for  that?"  she  said.  "I've  seen 
ignorance  an'  fastne-s  look  pretty  much  alike,  an'  when  I've 
thought  o'  bringin'  up  girls,  I've  thought  as  it's  most  as 
dangerous  to  let  them  know  too  little  as  'tis  to  let  them  know 
too  much." 

"  You  are  divinely  merciful  to  me,  Annie." 

"I  want  you  to  be  happy  about  me,"  she  said  gently ;  "to 
put  me  off  your  mind.  I  don't  suppose  as  we'll  ever  see  each 
other  agen  (there  won't  be  no  need,  an'  it  might  make  Lin 
suspicious),  so  what  I've  got  to  say  I  must  say  now.  I've  never 
blamed  you  in  my  heart  for  what  I  liad  to  bear.  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  I've  had  a  hard  life  just  becos'  o'  you,  for  that  isn't 
true.  Tho'  it's  bin  a  hard  workin'  life,  that  I'd  ha'  had  in  any 
case,  so  you  can't  be  to  blame  for  that ;  tho'  I've  had  little  in 
the  way  o'  pleasure,  I've  had  Lin,  an'  he've  made  up  for  it ; 
tho'  I've  bin  what's  known  as  a  ruined  woman,  I  haven't 
suffered,  after  all,  so  very  much  on  account  of  it.  I  think  people 
have  respected  me  becos'  I  never  hid  nothink.  It's  years  now 
since  anyone  flung  my  sin  in  my  teeth.  I've  kep'  myself  to 
myself,  an'  if  ev'ry  woman  like  me  did  that  she'd  frid  she 
needn't  be  a  mark  for  stones.  After  all,  I've  not  bin  unhappy. 
I've  done  my  best,  and  God  has  prospered  me.  So,  as  I  says, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  reproach  yourself  becos'  o'  me. 
You  couldn't  have  done  any  better  for  me  than  I've  done  for 
myself,  an'  if  Lin'd  bin  brought  up  in  too  much  comfort  it 
might  ha'  spoilt  him  for  bein'  any  good." 

"  I  grant  you  that.  He  has  done  far  better  with  you  than 
he  would  have  done  with  me ;  but  do  you  expect  me  to  get  any 
consolation  out  of  that  unpalatable  truth  ?  He  is  your  son, 
not  mine ;  he  owes  you  everything — me  nothing  but  a  bitter 
wrong." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  trouble  about  that,"  she  said ;  "  so  it's 
better  to  try  an'  forget  it.  An'  yet  it's  about  that  as  I  have 
somethink  to  say.  I'll  say  it  now,  for  the  time's  goin',  an'  I 
want  to  be  away  from  here  when  Lin  comes  back.  You've 
bin  kind  enough  to  say  as  you  feels  in  debt  to  me — " 

"  Very  heavily,  Annie,  with  no  chance  of  ever  getting  out." 

"  I've  never  ast  nothink  for  myself,  an'  this  isn't  for  myself 
that  I'm  goin'  to  ast  now,  altho',  if  it  isn't  granted  me,  I'll  be 


**Hftcr  Xong  l^ears"  3«9 

heavier  punished  than  anybody,  for  it'll  be  all  the  fault  o'  my 
blunderin',  I  wants  to  beg  of  you  one  great  favour.  Lin's 
young,  an'  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  make  him  suffer  for  me — " 

"One  moment,"  Le  Quesne  interposed  hastily;  "let  it 
never  be  said  that  you  had  to  ask  for  such  poor  amends  as  I 
can  make  you  through  Lin.  He  is  my  son,  and  all  I  have  is 
his.  Directly  I  knew  him  for  mine,  I  altered  my  will  in  his 
favour." 

She  started  up  and  drew  back  from  him,  for  in  his  eagerness 
he  had  lain  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh  / "  she  cried,  in  piteous  reproach,  "  did  you  think  I 
meant  thatt  Whatever  have  I  done  or  said  as  could  have 
made  you  mistake  me  like  that  ?  It  never  come  into  my  head 
to  think  o'  such  a  thing — " 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said  humbly ;  "  I'm  very  sorry.  God 
knows  I  have  mistaken  you  enough,  I  seem  fated  to  mistake 
you  to  the  end.  No,  no — don't  cry  !  When  I  think  of  all  the 
tears  you  have  shed  through  me,  I  feel  the  most  contemptible 
hound  alive." 

She  struggled  a  moment  with  the  choking  at  her  throat,  and 
conquered  it. 

"  It's  this  I  meant.  I  somehow  blundered  over  tellin'  Lin 
about  you,  an'  I've  never  bin  able  to  undo  what  I  done  then. 
If  you've  ever  spoke  to  him  about  the  man  what  wus  his 
father,  you'll  know  what  I  mean." 

"  I  have  spoken  about  the  man." 

*'  You  found  Lin  bitter  an'  hard  ?  '* 

"  Very  bitter  and  very  hard." 

"  You  can  see  as  there's  no  turnin'  him  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say  that.  He  has  an  exaggerated,  mistaken  idea 
of  the  man.  To  him  he  is  not  'man'  at  all.  Some  day  he 
will  know  who  he  was,  and  then  he  will  be  sorry  for  having 
judged  him  too  harshly." 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  you'll  never  tell  him." 

"  Oh,  why  ?     I  have  always  meant  to  tell  him — presently." 

"  I  thought  so,  because  o'  the  darin'  messages  you've  sent 
me.  They've  turned  me  sick  with  fear."  She  got  up  again  and 
faced  him.     "  Is  Lin  dear  to  you  ?  " 

"  Something  more  than  dear  to  me." 

"  Would  it  hurt  you  to  lose  him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  lose  him.  Nothing  I  could  do  or  say  could 
make  any  difference  between  us  now.  I  have  been  very 
cautious ;  I  have  waited  until  I  was  sure  of  him,  but  now  I 
am  sure,  and  I  must  tell  him  the  truth.     I  want  to  stand  face 


33©  Bnnie  3Dcane 

to  face  with  him  in  honest  reconciliation  before  I  die,  if  it  is 
only  for  an  hour.  When  I  hear  him  speak  of  the  man  who 
gave  him  life  as  a  God-forsaken  cur  outside  the  pale  of 
humanity,  what  do  you  think  I  feel  like,  knowing  that  man  for 
myself?" 

"  Let  him  speak  as  he  likes,  an'  try  not  to  mind  it.  How 
can  I  make  you  see  how  much  better  I  knows  my  Lin  than 
you  do  ?  In  most  things  he's  more  o'  you  about  him  than  he 
have  o'  me.  From  the  time  he  wus  but  a  baby  there  wus  that 
in  him  as  stamped  him  for  a  bettermost  class ;  but  in  one  thing 
he's  mine — he's  that  obs'nate  when  he  gets  a  thing  in  his  head, 
you  can't  turn  him.  I  crossed  him  once  over  the  life  he'd 
planned  for  hisself,  an'  at  the  end  o'  four  years  it  was  me  what 
had  to  give  in ;  he  didn't.  An'  I  don't  think  as  he've  seen 
since  that  he  wus  hard.  No,  he'd  got  right  on  his  side,  an'  he 
felt  justified  in  stickin'  to  it ;  I  wus  wrong — well,  if  I  had  to 
suffer  for  it,  he'd  think  that  on'y  fair." 

"  You  are  making  him  out  to  be  cruel." 

•*  He  can  be  cmel.  I  think  people  what  have  never  been 
tempted  can.  It's  on'y  them  as  have  made  mistakes  their- 
selves  as  can  be  merciful  to  others.  And  my  Lin  is  hard.  He's 
good  an'  kind,  but  he's  justy  an'  I've  often  noticed  that  just 
people  forgets  mercy." 

*'  He  is,  above  everything,  affectionate.  Tender-hearted 
and  tender-handed  as  any  girl ! " 

"  Yes,  but  before  he  loves  a  thing  he'll  satisfy  hisself  as  it's 
worth  lovin' ;  an',  on'y  let  him  find  it  isn't,  an'  he'll  turn  his 
back  on  it.  It  might  be  terrible  hard  to  do,  but  if  it  broke  his 
heart,  he'd  do  it." 

"  He  won't  turn  his  back  upon  me.  I  know  it  will  be  a 
terrible  shock  for  him  to  have  to  connect  me  with  that  man  he 
loathes  ;  but  Lin's  love  for  me  will  stand  a  heavier  blow  than 
that.  Sooner  or  later  he  will  say,  *  Since  it  was  you  who  were 
the  sinner — well,  let  the  sin  go  hang  ! ' " 

She  went  closer,  and  gave  his  arm  a  shaky  touch. 

"  Sooner  or  later,  p'r'aps — yes.  But  can  you  give  him  what 
I  give  him  ?  Havfe  you  got  four  long  years  to  wait  while  he 
comes  round  ?  I'd  slaved  for  him  since  he  wus  a  baby ;  I'd 
lived  ev'ry  minute  o'  my  life  for  him,  an'  denied  myself  even  a 
bit  o'  dainty  food  to  save  it  for  him ;  we  wus  everythink  to 
each  other  for  sixteen  years.  Then  I  made  one  mistake  an' 
went  agenst  him,  and  what  did  he  do?  Day  after  day  he  slunk 
out  o'  the  house  an'  never  looked  at  me ;  evenin'  after  evenin'  he 
slunk  in  agen,  with  his  shoulder  lifted  between  his  face  an* 


**Htter  Xona  l^ears"  331 

mine ;  night  after  night  he  crep'  away  to  bed  an'  took  no  more 
notice  o'  me  than  if  I'd  bin  a  dog,  until  I  thought  the  very 
heart  in  me  would  ha'  broke.  An'  when  he  was  most  too  ill 
to  drag  hisself  to  an'  from  the  office  he'd  lock  his  bedroom 
door  rather  than  I  should  go  in  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything 
for  him." 

"  Poor  soul ! "  with  a  compassionate  smile  at  her,  "  that  was 
hard  on  you.     Some  day  I  will  make  him  ashamed  of  it." 

"  You  make  him  ?  Can't  you  see  that  if  he'd  treat  me  like 
that  when  he  knew  what  he'd  bin  to  me  for  twenty  years,  he 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  consider  you,  who,  till  scarce  three  months 
ago,  did  very  well  without  him  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  reasonable  argument,  but  you  must  not  think  me 
cruel  when  I  say  that  I  have  a  grip  of  Lin,  the  strength  of 
which  you  cannot  understand.  I  believe  him  to  be  so  devoted 
to  me  that  if  he  thought  his  life  could  save  mine  he  would  give 
it  to  me  like  a  shot !  And  yet  you  think  that  he  would  turn 
me  adrift  for  a  thing  which  happened  five-and-twenty  years  ago  ? 
No,  no ;  I  know  him  better  than  that." 

She  turned  away,  and  lifted  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  It  isn't  much  to  ast,"  she  said  drearily,  "  an'  it's  for  your 
own  sake ;  but  if  you  won't  believe  me,  I  can't  help  it.  Still,  it 
do  look  hard  that  you  should  go  agenst  me  when  it  seems  to 
me  that  God  have  blinded  Lin,  in  answer  to  my  prayers,  to 
send  you  some  one  as  cares  for  you." 

"  But  what  is  it  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Leave  my  will  to  tell 
him  the  truth  when  I  am  gone?" 

"Let  nothing  ever  tell  him  the  truth,"  she  burst  out  with 
unusual  vehemence.  "  As  for  your  money,  if  once  he  was  to 
know  it  for  yours,  he'd  starve  rather  than  touch  a  penny  of  it ! 
Sure  there's  plenty  o'  your  own  folks  as  you  could  leave  that  to. 
Leave  Lin  somethink  if  you  feels  it  just,  but  not  enough  to 
make  him  wonder  why  you  should  forget  everybody  for  him. 
That  might  open  his  eyes." 

•'  I  choose  to  leave  all  I  have  to  my  son.  if  he  chooses  to 
pitch  it  into  the  street,  I  shall  be  none  the  wiser." 

"  An'  you  won't  promise  me  ?  Think  of  the  dread  I'll  live 
in  while  you're  away.  Every  day'll  seem  like  two.  jDo 
promise  me  1 " 

He  only  stood  upright,  looking  at  her  very  earnestly,  depriving 
her  of  her  hard-won  calmness,  until  she  shook  like  a  leaf,  and 
could  bear  the  silence  no  longer. 

"  If  you  won't  promise  me,"  she  said  hurriedly,  **  it's  no  use 
stoppin'  here.     I'll  go  before  Lin  comes  back.     At  least,  /'/« 


332  Hnnie  Dcane 

never  help  him  to  find  out  what  he'd  best  not  know.  Good — 
good-bye." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  tremulously-spoken  word,  only 
continued  to  look  at  her,  kindly  but  thoughtfully,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  fathom  something  which  puzzled  him. 

"  Good-bye,"  repeated  she  more  tremulously  still. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"I — I — think  so,  unless  it  is  I'd  like  to  say  'God  bless 


you 


t'» 


Or — God  forgive  me — which?  Well,  since  you  have, 
perhaps  He  has.  No,  I  can't  let  you  go  for  a  minute,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"Hadn't  you  better  leave  it?"  she  faltered  desperately,  for 
she  was  afraid  of  him  and  afraid  of  herself.  "  You're  not  fit  to 
Stan'  here  talkin'  to  me — you  look  a  lot  too  ill." 

He  passed  her  then,  and  sitting  down  on  a  couch,  leaned 
forward  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 

"Annie!" 

She  crossed  the  room,  standing  near  him,  her  heart  breaking 
over  him,  her  hands  twisted  in  the  folds  of  her  gown.  Lon;4 
years  of  drudgery  had  not  killed  her  womanly  instincts. 
She  loved  this  man  as  few  women  know  how  to  love.  With 
supreme  forgetfulness  of  self",  and  still  with  just  enough  of  it  to 
make  her  feel  she  would  give  her  life  to  touch  him !  And 
that — she  might  not  do. 

"Annie!" 

She  shivered,  but  did  not  speak. 

"To  do  Lin  justice  is  an  easy  matter,  but  that  will  not  touch 
you.     Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you  happier  ?  " 

"  What  I've  told  you.  That'd  make  me  very  happy,  an'  that 
you  won't  do." 

"  Leave  that  out.     Is  there  nothing — then  ?  " 

"  Nothink  at  all,  I'm  very  comf'table  now,  an'  as  for  bein' 
hard  worked — why,  if  it  wasn't  for  me  bein'  a  good  hand  wi' 
my  needle,  I'd  find  the  time  hang  heavy  on  my  hands." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  drew  her  closer  to  him.  She 
did  not  resist,  only  twisted  her  fingers  tighter  than  ever  in  the 
folds  of  her  gown,  until  her  nerves  from  palm  to  shoulder  were 
one  tinghng  network  of  pain. 

"Annie,  if  through  all  these  years  you  have  clung  to  a  scrap 
of  faith  in  me,  you  must  have  loved  me,  too  ?  " 

She  neither  acknowledged  nor  denied  it. 

"Tell  me  the  truth.  Faithfulness,  even  to  a  worthless  thing, 
is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 


**  attec  %onQ  l^eara  '*  333 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  but  I^-don't — think — it's  your 
business  to  ask — me — fki's." 

"  I  think  it  is.  I  don't  want  to  be  impertinent,  but  I  want 
to  know." 

She  held  her  peace,  wondering  if  he  could  fail  to  hear  how 
cruelly  her  heart  was  beating ;  she  could  hear  it  herself. 

"  Somehow,  I  think  if  you  had  ceased  to  care  for  me  you 
would  tell  me  so ;  but  my  knowledge  of  women  is  very  limited, 
and  I  may  be  wrong.  Looking  at  you  just  now,  I  thought  of 
something  which  quite  recently  came  under  my  notice.  A  man 
I  knew  very  well  was  once  engaged  to  a  lady  I  also  knew ;  but 
he  disappointed  her,  and  she  declined  to  marry  him.  They 
never  met  again,  though  neither  ever  married ;  but  more  than 
eighteen  years  after,  she  heard  that  all  was  up  with  him — that 
he  was  dying.  She  travelled  in  haste  from  America  to  London 
{Ae  was  in  London),  and  then  she  wrote  to  him,  asking — it 
seems  to  me — a  singular  favour.  With  an  earnestness  the 
sincerity  of  which  I — Ae — could  not  doubt,  she  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  go  to  him — to  stay  with  him — that  whatever  loving 
service  could  do  for  him  might  be  done  by  her  alone,  until 
Death  should  render  even  that  of  no  avail.  As  I  say,  it  seemed 
to  me  an  odd  request ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  am  not  a  woman. 
Was  it  odd  ?    You  are  a  woman,  and  will  know." 

"  Why  should  you  think  it  odd  ?  " 

"  It  couldn't  be  very  pleasant  to  watch  a  thing  you  love  die 
by  inches — like  a  rat  in  a  trap." 

"  No — it  couldn't  be  pleasant,  as — you — say." 

"Could  any  woman  wish  to  add  such  a  thing  to  her 
experience  ?  " 

"  I— don't— know." 

"You  would  not  care  to  add  it  to  yours?" 

"  I— can't— say." 

He  smiled,  and,  leaning  a  little  forward,  rested  his  forehead 
against  the  beating  heart  which  told  him  the  pitiful  truth. 

"  Aimie,  would  you  Hke  to  stay  with  me  ?  I  may  be  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  you ;  but  I  don't  think  you  would  mind,  and  it  could 
not  be  for  long." 

The  folds  of  her  dress  fell  away  from  one  of  her  clenched 
hands. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  heroic  lie.  I  can  look  at  you  and  find 
out  the  truth  for  myself." 

Her  other  hand  released  itself  and  stole  up  to  his  shoulder. 

"  No  one  shall  know  but  Lin.     Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

The  heart  against  his  forehead  beat  very  heavily  now,  while 


334  annie  Deane 

two  trembling  hands  stroked  his  hair  tenderly — very  tenderly, 
but  with  a  tenderness  quite  devoid  of  passion. 

"Annie,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  with  decisive  brevity,  "I 
won't." 

"Why?  because  of  Lin  ?     He  will  forgive  me — then." 

"  No,  not  becos'  o'  Lin.  If  it  wus  possible  for  you  to  wish 
it—" 

"  I  do  wish  it." 

"  If  it  wus  possible,"  she  went  on,  unheeding,  "  for  you  ever 
to  care  for  me,  it'd  be  a  diff  rent  thing  ;  but  it  isn't,  and  I'm  not 
so  foolish  as  to  think  it  is.  It's  all  very  well  now  for  half  an 
hour,  while  you  feels  as  if  you  must  move  heaven  an'  earth  to 
make  me  some  amends ;  but  that's  only  a  flash,  an'  I  couldn't 
take  advantage  of  it.  If  I  said  *  Yes,'  you'd  feel  that  the  sooner 
death  come  an'  put  an'  end  to  things  the  better,  if  'twas  on'y  to 
take  you  away  from  me.  You'd  be  like  a  gtn'rous-hearted  child 
who'd  give  away  all  he'd  got,  an'  wus  like  to  fret  his  heart  out 
that  he  wus  too  proud  to  ast  for  it  back.  Give  you  a  fair 
chance,  an'  you've  got  some  time  to  live — I  go  by  what  Lin 
tells  me.  Tie  you  to  me,  an'  you  takes  that  chance  away.  Do 
you  think  I've  loved  you  for  five-an'-twenty  years  on'y  to  do  you 
such  a  bad  turn  as  that  ?     No,  my  dear,  no — no  1 " 

He  did  not  speak,  and  she  went  on : 

"  You  take  my  Lin  as  a  gift  from  me,  an'  thankful  am  I  that 
I've  anythink  to  give  you  as  it's  worth  your  while  to  have.  He 
can  do  for  you  as  I  couldn't — he's  more  o'  your  sort.  Why, 
do  you  think  I  don't  feel  as  the  very  way  I  talks  would  fidget 
you  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  the  best  as  I  could  do 
for  you'd  only  try  your  patience  ?  It  isn't  your  fault,  an'  I  don't 
think  it's  mine.  Oil  an'  water  can't  help  it  that  they  wusn't 
meant  to  mix.  My  hands  isn't  fit  to  touch  you.  Anyone  that's 
ill  don't  get  a  fair  chance  onless  they  have  about  them  a  voice 
an'  a  touch  as  is  dear  to  them  an'  welcome.  I  wish  mine  could 
be  dear  to  you,  but  they  can't,  an'  to  ast  you  to  suffer  them  to 
please  me  'd  be  cruel.  You've  made  me  that  happy  an'  grateful, 
you  can't  think !  That  I  should  ever  have  lived  to  hear  you 
say  this  to  me  seems  most  too  good  to  be  true ;  but  I  can't  take 
you  at  your  word — it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  neither  of  us.  I'm 
quite  contented,  so-^-you  take  my  Lin,  an'  let — me — go." 

She  shut  the  gates  upon  her  glimpse  of  Paradise  as  she 
said  those  words ;  but  she  did  so  bravely,  honestly  feeling  that 
Paradise  was  not  for  her.  Lifting  his  head  from  where  it 
had  rested,  she  gave  him  one  long,  pitiful,  passionless  kiss, 


''Htter  %om  l^ears"  335 

and  turned  from  him  swiftly  lest  he  might  detain  her.  Well 
was  it  for  her  that  the  movement  was  swift,  for  already  the 
door  had  opened  to  admit  Lin. 

Something  unusual  in  the  expression  of  his  face,  something 
neither  suspicious  nor  puzzled,  but  yet  akin  to  both,  struck 
Annie  on  the  instant.  An  adept  in  the  art  of  concealment,  she 
stood  in  front  of  the  bowed  figure  on  the  couch,  and  looked 
Lin  straight  in  the  eyes  placidly. 

"  I  got  afraid  to  leave  before  you  come  back,"  she  said. 
"  Mr.  Le  Quesne's  tired,  an'  the  heat's  so  tryin' !  Please 
don't  get  up  " — turning  half  round,  but  still  looking  at  Lin — 
"  Lin  will  see  me  out.     I  half  forget  the  way." 

"  That  will  give  you  time  to  get  round,"  she  thought,  as  she 
followed  her  son  downstairs.  "  I'll  keep  him  a  minute  or  two 
— talkin'." 

She  did  keep  him,  perhaps  five  minutes;  but  Lin  still 
looked  pre-occupied,  and  instead  of  clearing  the  stairs  at  two 
or  three  springs  on  iiis  return  to  Le  Quesne,  he  took  the  stairs 
one  at  a  time — deliberately. 

"  I  must  be  mad,"  muttered  he  to  himself,  as  he  paused  at 
the  top ;  "  and  yet  I  swear  I  was  not  mistaken  !  She  stood 
close  to  him,  bending  over  him  as  many  a  time  she  has  bent 
over  me;  and  if  she  didn't  say  '  You  take  my  Lin,  and  let  me 
gv*),'  I  never  heard  her  say  anything  in  my  life  1  ** 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

DESERTED 

Lin  found  the  drawing-room  tenantless,  and  presently,  growing 
anxious,  went  to  see  if  all  were  right  with  Le  Quesne.  He 
found  him  lying  down. 

"  Anything  wrong  ?  "  he  said  quickly. 

"  No.  It  is  cooler  here  than  in  front  of  the  house.  Did 
you  see  Miss  Le  Breton  ?  " 

"  I  did.  I  found  her  the  reverse  of  all  I  expected  to  find 
her,  except  in  the  matter  of  personal  appearance.  Kindly 
allow  me  to  avow  my  absolute  belief  in  your  goddess." 

"  Exactly.  I  knew  you  had  only  to  see  her  to  be  converted, 
but  I  did  not  know  whether  you  would  own  your  c<mversion." 

"  I  expected  to  find  her  statuesque  and  stand-offish.  Instead 
of  which  I  found  her  nervous,  and  if  not  exactly  flurried  in 
manner,  certainly  not  self-possessed." 

"  Then  she  has  altered." 

"  Yes  ?  But  for  the  absurdity  of  the  thing,  I  should  say  I 
frightened  her.  I  was  shown  in  to  her,  and  she  forthwith 
caught  at  the  nearest  chair,  and  stood  looking  at  me  as  one 
might  look  at  the  risen  dead.  I  was  getting  uncomfortable, 
when  she  recovered  herself  and  apologised.  She  said  I  was  so 
like  someone  she  had  once  known  that  for  the  moment  I  had 
startled  her." 

"  I  think  you  are  generally  supposed  to  be  like — me.** 

"  And  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  me  say  that  I  fail  to  see 
much  resemblance.  Anyway,  I  am  not  sufficiently  like  you  to 
frighten  any  one." 

Le  Quesne  made  no  reply.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  God  have 
blinded  him,"  Annie  had  said  scarcely  an  hour  before.  Surely 
she  was  right  ?  Perhaps  it  is  but  characteristic  of  human  per- 
versity that  the  man  who  had  so  much  to  gain  by  that  blindness 
had  never  felt  so  inclined  to  enlighten  it  as  he  did  now. 

Lin,  taking  mental  note  of  his  weary  face,  thought  he  was 
tired,  and  having  done  what  he  could  to  make  him  comfortable, 
went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  settled  down  with  a  book 

336 


2)csertc^  337 

But  he  was  not  an  attentive  reader  at  the  best  of  times,  and 
now  could  not  read  at  all.  He  found  himself  thinking  of  his 
mother,  of  the  self-possession  displayed  by  her  in  that  room 
only  a  short  time  before,  a  self-possession  so  foreign  to  her 
intercourse  with  strangers  that  Lin  was  compelled  to  notice  it, 
and  to  think  it  peculiar. 

"She  wasn't  a  bit  like  herself,"  he  thought,  as  he  let  his 
book  slip  to  the  floor.  "  No  man  would  have  taken  her  for  a 
painfully  shy  woman.  I  suppose  she  has  grown  so  used  to 
thinking  of  him  in  connection  with  me  that  he  scarcely  seems 
like  a  stranger  now.  Besides,  that  worn,  pale  face  of  his  is  sure 
to  have  gone  straight  to  the  little  woman's  heart.  I  wish  she  had 
understood  it  is  bad  form  to  be  demonstrative.  Hang  it !  I 
never  knew  her  to  be  that — before." 

The  colour  came  into  his  face  here,  for  any  young  fellow 
who  values  his  womankind  is  ever  jealous  of  their  dignity,  and 
Annie's  was  not  of  the  order  which  may  venture  to  unbend 
and  yet  be  fearless  of  suspicion. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  the  door  between  the  two  rooms 
opened,  and  Le  Quesne  came  through. 

"  Had  a  good  rest  ? "  said  Lin,  starting  up.  "  I  must  be 
getting  fearfully  lazy ;  I  was  half  asleep." 

"  I  have  not  been  asleep ;  I  have  been  thinking.  Thought 
and  sleep  are  enemies." 

"  Had  I  known  I  should  have  turned  you  out.  What  on 
earth  had  you  to  think  about  ?  Oh,  I  say,  I've  been  thinking 
too.     Did  my  mother  preach  to  you  to-day  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  ?  " 

•'  Because  I  never  knew  her  conquer  her  natural  diffidence 
unless  some  one  had  started  her  on  the  subject  of  religion,  and 
because  she  has  made  you  so  uncommonly — quiet." 

*'  No,  she  did  not  preach  to  me,  and  if  she  had,  I  should 
have  been  a  reverent  listener,  for  I  am  sure  she  is  far  more 
fit  to  preach  than  many  people  who  do." 

**  But  which  of  you  talked  ?  "  said  Lin,  in  mingled  curiosity 
and  amusement,  "  you — or  she  ?  For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't 
imagine  her  having  pluck  enough  to  say  much  to  you  ! " 

"  I  think  she  said  more  than  I  did.  We  had  much  to  talk 
of,  notably — you." 

"  I  might  have  known  it !  Like  the  man  in  the  '  School  for 
Scandal,'  I  should  have  said  when  I  went  out — *  I  go,  and 
leave  my  character  behind  me.' " 

Le  Quesne  failed  to  be  in  harmony  with  Lin's  bantering 
tone  and  manner. 


338  Sitnie  2)eane 

"  We  were  speaking  of  your  earlier  life,"  he  said  slowly,  "  of 
those  unhappy  days  of  misunderstanding  between  you.  You 
ought  to  have  made  wider  allowance  for  her  prejudices  in 
those  times,  Lin,  seeing  what  a  model  of  devotion  she  has 
been  to  you." 

Lin's  bantering  manner  chanjred  at  once.  While  acknowledg- 
ing that  devotion  with  all  possible  heartiness,  he  yet  failed  to 
appreciate  the  fact  of  his  mother  having  made  of  it  the 
motif  oi^L  conversation  with  Mr.  Le  Quesne. 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  her  devotion  to  me,"  he  said 
quietly  ;  "  but  it  is  very  unlike  her  to  talk  of  it." 

Le  Quesne  saw  that  he  had  blundered. 

"She  made  no  parade  of  it,"  he  said  hastily,  "but  she  is 
so  transparent !  One  could  not  talk  to  her  for  five  minutes 
without  understanding  that  you  are  all  she  has  had  to  live 
for." 

Now  Lin  knew  that  as  well  as  anyone,  or  better  ;  but  he  was 
not  in  the  humour  to  have  it  thrown  up  at  him. 

♦'  I  have  riot  attempted  to  deny  it,"  he  said,  a  trifle  curtly. 
"  Upon  my  word,  I  can't  see  why  she  should  have  complained 
of  me  to  you  in  this  way." 

"  She  did  not  complain.     It  isn't  in  her  to  do  it." 

"  She  has  evidently  made  you  think  she  might  do  so  with 
justice,  or  why  should  you  commence  by  telling  me  that  I 
ought  to  have  made  wider  allowance  for  her  prejudices?  I 
confess  myself  to  be  immensely  surprised  at  her  coming  here 
and  talking  to  you  in  this  confidential  way." 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable.  I  sent  for  your  mother  because  I 
am  personally  accountable  to  her  for  your  suspended  career. 
It  was  necessary  that  I  should  discuss  matters  with  her." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  My  career  is  my  affair.  I  suspend  it  as 
I  take  it  up  again — independently  of  anyone.  I  shall  not  go 
to  my  mother  to  cover — deficiencies;  so  for  you  to  discuss 
matters  with  her  was  not  necessary  at  all.  I  know  perfectly 
well  what  it  led  to.  She  has  never  forgotten  the  wretched 
years  I  sacrified  to  her — prejudices,  and  she  has  never  ceased 
to  chafe  at  my  inability  to  confess  myself  in  the  wrong.  She 
misunderstood  me ;  she  had  power  to  coerce  me,  and  she  used 
it  to  its  limit.  I  resented  it  then,  and  I  resent  it  now ;  I  am 
not  going  to  outrage  my  sense  of  honesty  by  pretending  that  I 
don't." 

"  And  yet  she  had  done  so  much  for  you,  and  she  thought 
she  was  right." 

"  I  had  done  as  much  for  myself,  and  I  knew  she  was  wrong. 


2)cserte^  339 

It  is  hard  to  have  one's  dearest  hopes  made  light  of — ignored 
— by  those  who  ought  to  understand  one  best.  That  makes 
one  bitter.  I  daresay  that  I,  in  my  boyish  way,  was  extra- 
vagantly harsh,  but  I  felt  the  injury  was  one  which  justified  me 
in  being  so.  I  don't  expect  you  to  see  this,  because  other 
people's  injuries  can  always  be  borne  with  fortitude — not  to  say 
with  cheerfulness.  We  won't  discuss  the  matter.  Why  my 
mother  should  rake  up  that  old  grievance — I  don't  know.  It 
has  long  since  been  happily  shelved." 

"  She  did  not  rake  it  up,  but  she  may  have  wondered  why 
you  do  for  me  voluntarily  what  you  only  did  for  her  under 
coercion." 

"  It  is  a  different  thing,"  said  Lin  hastily.  "  I  was  all  untried 
then,  denied  my  chance,  given  no  choice,  forced  into  some- 
thing uncongenial,  to  pander  to  a  selfish  whim.  Now,  I  know 
what  I  am  worth ;  I  give  up  nothing  but  a  little  time.  I  take 
up  my  life  again  when  I  choose,  pretty  sure  of  a  kind  reception. 
Where  is  the  comparison  ?  " 

"A  woman  would  make  one.  She  understands  motives  less 
than  actions.  What  is  my  desire  for  your  society  but  a  '  selfish 
whim  *  ?  Yet  you  would  not  like  to  hear  it  sneered  at  for 
that" 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  laughed  Lin  indulgently. 
"  Let  us  have  lights,  and  be  cheerful.  I  can  quite  see  how  my 
mother  and  you  amused  yourselves  this  afternoon.  You  laid 
me  on  a  table  and,  metaphorically,  dissected  me.  Under  her 
guidance  you  found  me  suffering  from  a  disease  known  as 
•hardness  of  heart,'  'inabihty  to  assimilate  injury' — how  shall 
I  find  a  name  for  it  ?  Never  mind,  it  doesn't  matter.  She 
lamented  over  my  condition,  and  you  undertook  to  cure  me. 
Is  that  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  near  it.  You  are  resentful,  and  intolerant  j 
that  is,  you  profess  to  be.  I  think  there  is  more  of  profession 
in  it  than  reality,  though.  It  is  so  out  of  keeping  with  the 
rest  of  your  character  that  it  jars  upon  me  like  a  false  note. 
There  is  little  wonder  if  your  mother  grieves  over  it." 

"  You  want  me  exactly  to  pattern  ?  Now,  I  take  it  that  is 
the  reason  why  so  many  excellent  people  are  disappointed  in 
others.  They  expect  consistency,  and  they  don't  get  it.  Man 
is  neither  god  nor  devil.  He  is  a  mixture,  sometimes  of 
extremes,  but  nearly  always  of  opposites.  I  once  knew  a  man 
who  was  ultra-conscientious  in  his  dealings  with  men,  but  who 
could  no  more  resist  making  a  woman  believe  in  him  and  then 
'  riding  away '  than  he  could  resist  eating  his  dinner  when  it 


349  Bnnte  S>ean6 

was  set  before  him.  Also  I  knew  another  man  who,  though 
fool  enough  to  drink  away  his  health  and  gamble  away  his 
substance,  yet  never  touched  the  money  left  him  in  trust  for 
his  imbecile  brother,  and  steadily  refused  to  marry  the  girl  who 
had  stuck  to  him  through  thick  and  thin,  not  because  the  poor 
devil  didn't  want  to,  for  he  loved  her,  but  because  he  honestly 
felt  he  wasn't—^/  /  No,  it  is  of  no  use ;  we  are  not  according 
to  line  and  rule.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  we  are  all 
like  a  puzzle,  only  to  be  fitted  together  by  the  Hand  which 
designed  us." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Lin,  and  never  mind  the  lamps.  Do  you 
know  what  you  said  just  now  ?  I  am  going  to  hold  you  to  it. 
'  Man  is  neither  god  nor  devil ;  he  is  a  mixture  of  extremes.' 
Surely  I  heard  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  believe  it" 

"  Yet  in  speaking  of  a  man  once  you  called  him  a  '  God- 
forsaken hound,'  outside  the  pale  of  humanity." 

Lin  dropped  the  match  he  had  struck  into  an  ash-tray,  and 
watched  it  burn  out. 

"Outside  the  pale  of  humanity,"  repeated  he,  "therefore 
not  to  be  judged  by  ordinary  human  laws.  When  I  said  what 
I  did  I  was  speaking  of  the  men  one  meets  every  day,  not  of — 
criminals." 

"Yet  are  even  they  God-created,  as  we  are." 

"  Well,  I  think  they  are  His  business,  not  ours.  I  am  not 
speaking  irreverently.  You  can't  deny  that  there  are  men 
whose  record,  handed  down  to  posterity,  contains  no  one  thing 
which  is  good.  Would  you  like  to  undertake  the  white- 
washing of,  say,  Judas  Iscariot  ?  " 

Le  Quesne  sat  forward  in  his  chair  and  spoke  with  such 
desperate  earnestness  that  Lin  was  startled. 

"  Well,  even  for  him  I  will  be  daring  enough  to  put  forward 
a  plea.  Do  you  think  he  did  what  he  did  knowingly  ?  That 
he  believed  in  the  Man  he  betrayed  ?  Of  a  certainty — no,  or  he 
had  never  dared.  Sheer  reverence  had  saved  him  from  lifting 
his  vile  hand  against  a  thing  so  awful !  He  sinned  in 
unbelieving  ignorance." 

"Even  allowing  that,  he  foully  betrayed  another — man. 
Does  that  whitewash  him  ?  " 

"No,  but  that  has  been  done  many  times  since  in  cold 
blood,  and  unaccompanied  by  universal  execration.  Of  that 
part  of  his  sin,  too,  did  Judas  bitterly  repent.  He  is,  I  beheve, 
the  only  man  in  the  whole  of  that  sacred  record  of  whom  it 
can  be  said  that  repentance  availed  him  nothing." 


2>e0erte&  341 

Lin,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  watched  the  light  from 
a  glorious  full  moon  creep  steadily  along  the  floor.  He 
suddenly  stood  upright,  and  turned  towards  Le  Quesne. 

"  Surely  you  and  my  mother  did  not  speak  of  the  man  of 
whom  I  told  you  ?  " 

"  We  did." 

"  How  very  extraordinary  ! " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  a  privileged  person,  and  your  mother  is 
—  your  mother." 

"  Who  spoke  of  him  first  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  quite  say." 

••  I  wish  you  could.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  it  being  her, 
and  I  would  rather  that  she  had  not  known  I  told  you  anything 
about  him." 

"  She  does  know.  It  was  in  connectionVith  this  that  your 
curious  implacability  came  under  discussion.  You  know  it  is 
a  trouble  to  her." 

"  I  know  she  chooses  to  make  a  trouble  of  it,  I  cannot  see 
why." 

"  I  promised  her  to  try  to  convert  you." 

'*  I  am  surprised  you  should  have  done  that." 

"  You  may  presently  ct  ase  to  be  surprised.  Your  mother 
has  done  her  best,  and  failed.  I  am  going  to  do  my  best,  and 
if  I  fail,  we  shall  only  be  where  we  were  before.  I  believe  you 
would  do  more  for  me  than  for  anyone  else.  Is  that  a  delusion, 
or  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  simple  truth,"  said  Lin,  but  he  said  it  irritably,  as  if 
he  wished  that  the  question  had  not  been  asked. 

"  Can  you  account  for  it  being  so  ?  " 

"  No.  A  man's  personal  likes  and  dislikes  are  beyond  his 
control — they  are  involuntary.  In  that  he  likes  or  dislikes,  he 
obeys  something  entirely  outside  himself." 

"  Yes,  you  proved  that  to-day,  when  you  went  on  a  distaste- 
ful errand  to  please  me,  having  first  made  up  your  mind  to 
detest  the  lady  whose  acquaintance  I  wished  you  to  make. 
You  came  back  confessing  yourself  all  wrong.  Had  I  let  you 
alone  you  would  have  remained  in  the  wrong,  and  have  forfeited 
the  chance  of  a  friendship  which  will  hereafter  be  of  service  to 
you.     For  you  will  be  friends,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Very  well,"  assented  Lin  cheerfully,  "  we  will  allow  that  I 

made  a  mistake  there.     A  man   cannot  do  more  than  own 

himself  in  the  wrong,  can  he  ?  " 

f  *'  Yes.     He  can  try  to  right  the  wrong,  and  be  a  better  man 

I       in  the  effort.    You  disliked  Miss  Le  Breton  for  want  of  know- 


34«  Bnnie  2)eane 

ing  her.  The  other  hatred  you  hug  so  closely  is  no  worthier  of 
you,  as  I  see  you.  You  know  nothing  of  that  man  outside  this 
one  episode  in  his  life.  Of  his  temptations  before,  of  his 
repentance  afterwards,  you  would  refuse  to  hear  if  anyone  could 
prove  to  you  beyond  doubt  that  he  was  tempted,  and  that  he 
did  repent.     Is  that  manly,  Lin — is  that  just?" 

"  Why  should  I  be  so  scrupulous  to  extend  the  full  measure 
of  manliness  and  justice  to  a  man  who  showed  himself  to  be 
possessed  of  neither  ?  " 

"  Because  I  ask  you.  After  to-night  I  will  not  trouble  you 
about  this  one  way  or  the  other.  You  shall  decide,  and  I  will 
accept  your  decision." 

"  If  I  could  see  why  you  should  make  a  point  of  it,  I  might 
try  to  put  the  whole  thing  out  of  my  mind  as  far  as  possible." 

"  That  will  not  do.  You  are  good  enough  to  say  that  you  care 
for  me  more  than  for  any  one  on  earth,  and  God  knows  that  you 
have  shown  you  do  without  talking  about  it.  You  have  put 
self  behind  you  once  for  my  sake ;  now  put  self  behind  you 
again,  and  grant  me  charity  for — that  man." 

*•  Good  heavens  !  this  is  no  question  of  self  I  My  feeling 
for  that  man  is  outside  me,  or  any  will  of  mine.  Can  you  not 
see  that  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,  nor  can  I  believe  it.  Lin,  I  shall  not  ask  of  you 
many  more  sacrifices." 

Lin  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  big  chair,  resting  his  own 
arm  lightly  on  Le  Quesne's  shoulders. 

"  Ask  of  me  anything  in  the  way  of  reasonable  service,  and 
I  will  not  refuse  you.  This  is  a  question  of  principle.  Surely 
you  will  allow  that  there  are  things  which,  before  a  man  could 
forgive,  he  would  have  ceased  to  be  a  man  ?  This  is  one  of 
them." 

"  Your  pride  says  that ;  your  obstinacy  tells  you  to  stick  to  it. 
If  I  could  break  down  your  pride  and  your  obstinacy,  from  the 
heart  of  you  I  should  get  a  worthier  answer." 

"  My  pride  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Why  agitate  yourself 
and  harass  me  by  harping  upon  a  thing  which  can  make  no 
difference  to  either  of  us  ?  " 

Lin  spoke  earnestly,  but  he  spoke,  too,  with  studied  gentle- 
ness. He  could  only  suppose  this  to  be  the  whim  of  a  man 
who,  enfeebled  by  illness,  had  become  exacting,  fixing  his  mind 
upon  a  trivial  thing  only  desirable  because  out  of  easy  reach. 

"  Come,  let  it  go,"  he  said.  "  If  I  had  known  that  my 
mother  was  going  to  infect  you  with  her  little  *  craze,*  I  should 
have  kept  you  apart." 


'Besetted  343 

Le  Quesne  put  up  a  hand  to  grasp  Lin's.  Thus  encirding 
himself,  as  it  were,  with  the  strong  young  arm,  he  leaned  back 
heavily  against  it.  He  liked  to  feel  it  there,  to  reflect  that  as 
yet  he  had  said  nothing  to  scare  that  gentle  touch  away. 

"  Your  mother  did  not  infect  me.  I  said  just  now  I  promised 
her  to  convert  you.  That  is  not  true.  I  promised  myself^  but 
she  implored  me  to  leave  you  alone." 

"She  was  sensible.  She  could  not  see  why  you  should 
trouble  to  plead  this  man's  cause  with  me." 

"Indeed  she  could." 

Lin  shifted  his  position  uneasily.  He  would  have  risen,  but 
that  the  hand  he  held  tightened  upon  his. 

"  Can  you  show  me — why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  the  man." 

"  You  knew  the  man  ?  Well,  that  should  have  raised  him, 
seeing  that  it  could  not  lower  you,  but  it  does  not  explain 
why  you  should  plead  his  cause." 

"  I  plead  it  because  the  time  is  coming  when  you  will  know 
him  too,  for  he  has  watched  you  longingly  from  a  distance, 
and  wishes  to  be  friends." 

Again  Lin  tried  to  get  away,  and  again  the  hand  closed  over 
his  own  with  a  clasp  which  might  not  be  shaken  off  without 
force. 

"  I  plead  his  cause  because,  indeed,  he  is  not  the  God- 
forsaken cur  you  make  of  him,  but  such  a  man  as  you  say  one 
meets  with  every  day,  neither  all  good  nor  all  bad,  but  a 
mixture  of  both  ;  a  man  who,  looking  at  your  mother  and  at 
you,  feels  himself  not  good  enough  to  be  admitted  and 
forgiven,  and  yet  not  bad  enough  to  be  thrust  out  and  stoned." 

Rigid  and  chill,  Lin  sat  and  watched  the  pale  light  creep 
along  the  floor,  watched  his  shadow  lose  itself  in  Le  Quesne's 
shadow,  until  the  shape  of  each  was  swallowed  u[)  and  lost. 
And  he  shuddered,  as  at  a  half-forgotten  dream,  which  even  the 
light  of  day  has  not  the  power  to  strip  of  a//  its  terror.  The 
evening  breeze,  coming  freshly  through  the  open  windows, 
stirred  the  big  palms  with  a  sound  like  that  of  a  pitying  sigh. 
Why  did  his  thoughts  travel  back  to  that  holiday  of  his  child- 
hood, to  the  hush  of  the  dark  pine-wood,  to  the  splendour  of  a 
summer  sunset,  and  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  reddened 
turf?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  felt  his  heart  within  him 
sink,  while  there  dawned  upon  him  a  conviction  that  he  was 
passing  into  a  fresh  phase  of  existence,  in  which  there  would  be 
something  missing,  something  which  had  made  life  dear  to 
him,  but  what — he  could   not  tell.     He  tried  to  speak,  or 


344  Bnnie  2)eane 

thought  he  tried,  and  then  desisted  for  lack  of  will.  Whatever 
he  said  would  only  help  him  to  acquire  a  knowledge  he  desired 
to  shun,  and  that  knowledge  was  already  all  too  close  at  hand. 
So  he  sat  there  dumb,  feeling  nothing  but  the  clutch  of  nervous 
fingers  about  his  wrist,  hearing  nothing  but  the  hoarse,  pathetic 
voice,  at  once  so  full  of  self-repression  and  of  fear. 

*'  I  plead  his  cause  because  his  time  is  very  short ;  because 
the  shafts  of  misfortune  have  struck  him  so  thickly  and  so  often 
that  they  have  left  him  with  but  one  spot  vulnerable  to  mortal 
hand,  and  that  to  no  hand  but  your  own.  To  all  but  your 
contempt — to  every  loss  but  the  loss  of  you,  he  is  ready  to 
submit,  but^no — no —  Lin,  hear  me  out;  don't  take  your  hand 
away  !  Put  it  and  the  other  about  my  neck,  and  wring  the  life 
out  of  me  if  you  will ;  but  as  long  as  you  leave  me  a  life  to 
live,  for  the  love  of  God,  be  merciful  to  me  ! " 

Lin  rose  to  his  feet,  but  could  not  get  away.  His  arm, 
pinned  by  Le  Quesne's  weight  against  the  back  of  the  chair, 
seemed  at  once  alive  with  the  horror  of  loathsome  contact, 
and  paralysed  for  all  voluntary  movement.  He  remembered 
the  ghastly,  sickening  pain  of  those  crushed  nerves  to  the  end 
of  his  life. 

"I  can't  believe  my  senses,"  he  said  slowly  at  last,  in  a  dull, 
strained  voice  that  bore  no  likeness  to  his  own.  "  Are  you 
the  man  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  man." 

And  the  night  wind,  stirring  again  through  the  palm-leaves, 
touched  Lin's  white  face,  whispering  softly,  "  Pity  him  I  Pity 
him ! " 

•  #•••••• 

"  Oh  !  my  good  God  !     How  horrible  I " 

It  was  the  first  thing  he  said  after  the  swirling  wave  of  out- 
ra-^ed  feeling,  passing,  had  left  him  master  of  his  steadying 
senses.  In  his  brain  two  shadowy  figures  were  struggling  to 
become  one — the  demon-figure  of  his  mother's  seducer,  and 
that,  half  human,  half  divine,  of  the  man  who  had  seemed  to 
him  the  noblest  and  most  lovable  thing  on  earth.  He  could 
not  reconcile  them — it  was  like  trying  to  reconcile  God  and 
devil ;  they  would  not  mix.  He  turned  and  looked  at  the  still 
figure  lying  in  the  shelter  of  his  tortured  arm.  How  still  it  lay, 
yet  how  convulsively  the  hand  clutched  his  own — with  a  grip 
like  that  of  death !  He  tried  again  to  free  himself,  but  the 
clinging  hand  was  still  the  stronger,  and  would  not  let  his  go. 
He  desisted  and  stood — looking — thinking — disentangling— 
rt'iiembering — until  the  last  vestige  of  doubt  had  vanished, 


H)eserte&  34s 

and  the  two  brain-images  melted  into  one,  united  for  ever  by  a 
memory  significant  as  it  was  sickening — the  memory  of  his 
own  likeness  to  Le  Quesne.  He  had  often  smiled  at  it ;  he 
did  not  smile  at  it  now  ;  it  maddened  him. 

"  Let  go  my  hand,"  he  said  sternly.  "  I  am  like  you,  as  they 
say,  and  if  I  think  of  what  that  means,  I  shall  be  tempted  to 
strike  the  likeness  out  of  one  of  us ;  there  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  be  you." 

The  demand  was  instantly  complied  with.  Lin  drew  away 
his  arm  and  stood  a  few  paces  off  against  the  wall.  His 
heart  was  on  fire  ;  his  brain  was  in  a  whirl ;  also,  his 
pride  was  in  revolt,  as  it  had  been  in  the  old  days  at  the  office. 
He  had  been  disposed  of  in  the  dark,  his  most  sacred  feelings 
made  light  of  and  ignored.  This  man  and  his  mother  had 
made  a  dupe  of  him.     By  Heaven,  they  should  suffer  for  it ! 

"  Great  God ! "  he  burst  out  savagely,  "  what  have  I  done 
that  my  mother  and  you  should  dare  to  play  me  such  a  sorry 
trick  as  this  ?  " 

"  I  may  have  played  you  what  you  call  a  *  trick.'  She  has 
had  no  share  in  it." 

"  She  let  me  meet  you  without  warning ;  she  has  seen  me 
make  a  friend  of  you,  knowing  well  that  I  would  have  cut  off 
my  hand  rather  than  have  offered  it  to  you  in  friendship." 

'*  That  is  true ;  but  she  had  no  desire  to  '  trick '  you.  She 
wished  to  see  peace  between  us." 

"She  wished  an  impossibility,  alike  for  her  own  sake  and 
mine.  But  where  you  are  concerned,  wrong  is  her  right,  I 
think.  Only  to-day,  had  I  not  been  the  blindest  fool  alive,  I 
should  have  seen  that  she  and  you  were  far  too  intimate  to  be 
fresh  acquaintances,  and  far  too  intimate  to  be — honourable. 
But  when  I  saw  her  standing  close  to  you,  bending  over  you, 
I  gave  my  eyes  the  lie  rather  than  think  her  not  above 
suspicion." 

Le  Quesne  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  leaning  on  the 
back  of  it. 

"  Until  to-day  I  had  not  spoken  to  your  mother  for  five-and- 
twenty  years — nor  since  I  have  known  you  has  there  been  any 
sort  of  communication  between  us.  I  have  been  ashamed  to 
look  her  in  the  face,  and  she  has  been  too  generous  to  ask  me 
to  do  so.  But  to-day  1  sent  for  her,  and  she  came.  She  told 
me  she  should  not  come  again,  because  of  her  dread  of 
arousing  in  you  any  suspicion  of  the  truth.  She  begged  me 
not  to  make  you  any  confession,  she  was  so  sure  that  if  I  did 
you  would  have  none  of  me.     I  wanted  her  to  come  to  me.  to 


346  Snnle  Dcanc 

be  my  wife  for  whatever  of  time  remains  to  me,  but  she  refused. 
Yes,  she  did  stand  close  to  me,  she  did  bend  over  me,  like  the 
sweet,  compassionate  woman  that  she  is.  There  is  the  truth. 
I  hope  she  will  not  suffer  in  your  eyes  for  my  having  told  it. 
That  you  should  suspect  me  is  natural ;  that  you  should 
suspect  her  is  not  only  i/«-natural,  it  is  impertinent." 

Unhinged  and  passion-blinded  as  he  was,  Lin  shrank. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  brought  her  very  low 
in  that  I  have  submitted  her  to  the  indignity  of  being  defended 
by  you.^^ 

Le  Quesne's  pale  lips  twitched  and  his  eyes  filled. 

"  Lin,"  he  said  gently,  "  words  break  no  bones,  they  say,  but 
words  like  yours  can  break  hearts,  and  mine  is  a  sorry  mark  for 
you ;  let  it  alone.  I  deserve  all  you  can  say  of  me,  and  more  j 
but  there  is  one  recollection  which  I  hope  to  take  down  to  the 
grave  with  me  untouched,  and  that  is  the  recollection  of  your 
kindness.  If  kindness  between  us  is  no  longer  possible,  then 
at  least  there  shall  be  nothing  else." 

"  Kindness !  Where  was  your  kindness  when  you  made 
yourself  so  dear  to  me  that  nothing  else  in  life  had  any  hold 
upon  me,  only  to  tell  me  this  f  I  say  it  is  a  devilish  trick,  just 
such  a  heartless  thing  as  one  might  expect  from  the  man  who 
could  act  as  you  did  years  ago.  If  there  had  been  a  spark  of 
honour  in  you,  you  would  have  warned  me  away  from  you  at 
first." 

•'  I  did  not  seek  your  friendship,  nor  had  I  any  idea  of  your 
connecton  with  me  until  things  had  gone  too  far  to  admit  of 
our  drifting  back  into  mere  acquaintances.  I  had  no  idea  that 
there  lived  a  man  for  whose  existence  I  was  responsible.  I 
wish  I  had  had  such  an  idea.  You  would  have  had  less  to 
reproach  me  with  than  you  have  now." 

Lin  did  not  immediately  answer.  Passion  was  dying  down 
in  him.  He  had  believed  in  the  man  so  utterly — he  was  so 
willing  to  believe  in  him  still. 

"  Oh  ! "  he  said,  wretchedly,  after  a  long  pause,  "  if  there  is 
any  loophole  of  escape  for  you,  show  it  to  me.  You  know 
what  I  have  heard — is  it  a//  true,  or  has  it  been  distorted  into 
something  worse  than  it  was  ?  Most  stories  of  this  sort  have 
two  sides.     If  this  has,  show  it  me  from  yours." 

"It  has  no  other  side.  I  can  only  say  that,  like  Judas,  I 
betrayed  a  thing  to  the  divinity  of  which  I  was  blind.  I  saw 
no  reason  to  think  it  sacred.  No,  Lin,  there  is  no  loophole  by 
wliich  I  may  escape.  Only  the  love  which  shuts  its  eyes  to  the 
sin  for  the  sake  of  the  sinner  can  avail  me  anything." 


Deserted  347 

"  Did  you  never  go  back  to  that  village  ?  never  make  any 
inquiry  ?  never  move  a  hand  to  find  out  if  that  girl  were  living 
or  dead — or — worse  than  dead  ?  " 

"  I  went  back  once — five  years  after.  Deserted  myself,  I 
bethought  me  of  the  girl  I  had  deserted.  I  tried  to  find  her 
out." 

"  You  did  go,  then  ?    You  did  try  to  find  her  ?  " 

The  piteous  eagerness  of  that  question  touched  Le  Quesne 
as  nothing  had  touched  him  yet.  Lin  saw  a  loophole,  and  was 
trying  to  widen  it  for  him. 

**  I  did.  I  saw  her  sister — Mrs.  Drake.  She  told  me  the 
girl  had  emigrated,  and  that  the  child  was  dead." 

"  That  was  a  double  lie,  as  you  might  easily  have  proved." 

"  Yes.  I  proved  nothing.  I  was  satisfied,  and  made  no 
further  inquiry." 

"  Not  of  her  parents — not  of  anyone  else  likely  to  know  ?  " 

"  Not  of  a  living  soul.     I  saw  no  reason." 

Lin  abandoned  the  loophole  as  hopeless. 

"  You  were  easily  satisfied,"  he  said,  "  so  easily  that  I  think 
if  I  were  you  I  would  never  mention  that  poor  attempt  at 
reparation,  never  pretend — even  to  myself — that  I  made  one." 

"  Very  well.  We  will  say  none  was  made.  We  will  wipe 
it  out.     I  did — nothing." 

"  As  I  see  things — you  did  nothing.  This  makes  your  story 
of  repentance  the  merest  clap-trap,  in  which  no  man  could 
believe  if  he  tried.  For  more  than  twenty  years  you  had  a 
glorious  life  of  it.  Ease — luxury — popularity  and  success  such 
as  fall  to  the  lot  of  one  man  in  ten  thousand  !  And  then  jou 
talk  of  hardship  !  To  me  it  seems  that  Retribution  has  over- 
taken you  very  slowly.  I  don't  think  you  have  any  right  to 
plead  your  cause  with  my  mother's  son  as  that  of  a  man  who 
has  suffered." 

"Very  well.  We  will  say  I  have  sufiered — nothing.  I  have 
been  a  very  millionaire  in  luck,  and  love,  and  happiness." 

"  While  she  has  been  a  beggar  in  all  three." 

"In  neither,  Lin.     She  has  had  you." 

"  Well,  I  have  been  something — something  to  be  slaved 
for,  something  to  keep  the  sin  of  her  youth  well  before  the 
eyes  of  all  men.  Put  yourself  in  her  place,  and  see  if  you 
would  have  looked  upon  me  in  the  light  of  a — compensation  I 
I  doubt  it.  Put  yourself  in  her  place  ?  As  if  you  could ! 
What  do  you  know  of  the  life  of  a  servant,  beyond  the  fact  that 
if  you  ring  a  bell,  one  will  answer  it  ?  I  know  what  her  life 
has  been.    I  wish  I  could  bring  it  home  to  you : — A  patient 


348  annie  Deaue 

drudge  in  an  underground  kitchen — up  early  and  to  bed  late  j 
for  years  at  the  beck  and  call  of  a  selfish  old  she  slave- 
driver,  who  used  her  misforture  as  a  means  of  extorting  from 
her  work  enough  for  two  ;  too  honest  to  touch  a  bit  of  the 
plainest  food  without  permission;  too  proud  to  ask  for  what 
was  not  given  readily ;  her  one  pleasure  to  have  me  with  her 
from  Saturday  to  Monday.  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is 
of  getting  up  when  she  did  in  the  dark  of  bitter  winter 
mornings,  of  being  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl  with  my  hands 
tied  in  away  from  the  cold,  of  running  up  and  down  the  pave- 
ment while  she  washed  and  whitened  the  sieps,  of  seeing  the 
blood  run  out  of  the  cruel  cuts  in  her  hands,  and  the  tears  run 
down  her  face  with  the  pain  of  them.  Perhaps  I  remember 
this  the  more  vividly  because  she  always  took  so  much  trouble 
to  tell  me  I  was  not  to  think  she  was  crying — it  was  only 
the  cold  wind  that  made  her  eyes  water.  I  know  that  bleed- 
ing hands  are  not  nearly  so  romantic  as  bleeding  hearts,  that 
broken  chilblains  are  not  a  theme  for  poets.  I  apologise  for 
bringing  such  repulsive  things  to  your  notice.  They  belong  to 
that  *  Nobody's  Story '  of  which  we  were  speaking  the  other 
day ;  they  are  the  realities  of  life,  in  comparison  with  which 
the  sufferings  of  the  sentimentalist  are,  I  venture  to  think, 
bearable." 

"  Lin,  say  no  more.  When  your  mother  said  that  she  knew 
you  better  than  I,  and  that  you  could  be  cruel,  she  was  right." 

"  I  am  not  cruel,  I  am  just.  I  put  her  life  of  hardship 
against  your  life  of  crumpled  rose-leaves,  and  I  say  that  for  you 
to  whine  about  misfortune  is — clap-trap  !  Of  course,  I  am  not 
talking  of  the  last  few  months,  for  I  know  you  have  had  much 
to  bear,  and  I  have  seen  you  bear  it  like — like  a  brick  ! " 

That  odd  flash  of  boyish  justice,  of  Lin's  better  self,  was  very 
welcome  to  Le  Quesne.  He  smiled  ;  then,  slowly  crossing  the 
dusky  room,  he  stood  close  to  the  slouching  figure  dimly 
outlined  against  the  wall. 

"  You  are  severe,"  he  said  gently,  "  but  you  are  young,  and 
severity  belongs  to  youth.  When  you  are  older  you  will  be 
more  merciful.  And  now,  for  to-night  let  us  say  no  more. 
Perhaps  to-morrow  things  will  look  less  black.  I  don't  mean 
that  you  will  have  less  to  forgive,  but  you  may  be  more  capable 
of  forgiving," 

Lin's  tongue  was  cleaving  to  his  mouth,  his  heart  was  sinking 
in  him  like  a  leaden  weight.  He  moved  away  from  the  hand 
htid  out  to  him. 

"Make  no  mistake,"  he  said  deliberately.     "What  we  do 


BcserteD  349 

not  say  to-night  will  be  unsaid  for  ever.  There  is  but  one 
thing  to  do,  and  that  is  to  put  the  greatest  obtainable  distance 
between  us." 

"  Lin,  you  don't  mean  that  ?  " 

"  I  do.  It  is  the  only  thing  that  is  clear  to  me.  I  must — 
go.  I  couldn't  stay  here  to  learn  to  hate  you,  to  look  at  you, 
and  know  you  for  the  man  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  could 
suffer  to  be  hung  for !  You  knew  that  when  you  told  me  I 
should  go." 

"You  cannot  go,"  the  husky  voice  said  patiently ;  "  it  is  out 
of  the  question.  You  could  not  desert  me  just  for  a  thing  that 
happened  five-and-iwenty  years  ago  ?  Does  that  change  tm  1 
If  I  were  worth  caring  for  an  hour  ago,  I  am  worth  it  now, 
being  the  same." 

"  An  hour  ago  I  did  not  know  you ;  now  I  do.  There  lies 
the  difference.  The  man  for  whom  I  gave  up  my  profession  is 
dead.     I  return  to  my  profession." 

"  The  man  is  not  dead,  and  you  are  necessary  to  his  life." 

"  That  is  an  extravagant  assertion,  and  untrue.  By  this 
time  to-morrow  Dr.  Helston  will  have  filled  my  place.  You 
will  not  suffer.  For  me — the  engagement  I  refused  a  few  weeks 
back  is  still  open  to  me.     I  shall  go  to  India  with  '  Madame.' " 

"  No,  you  will  not.  Even  if  you  could  punish  me  so  heavily, 
there  is  your  mother,  upon  whom  such  punishment  would  fall 
with  double  weight." 

"  She  will  be  at  liberty  to  fill  my  place — here." 

"  "Which  you  know  she  will  not  do." 

"  Where  you  are  concerned,  1  know  nothing  about  her." 

They  stood  quite  close  to  each  other  for  some  little  time — 
sometimes  speaking,  sometimes  silent,  one  cheerily  patient,  the 
other  hopelessly  sullen.  Le  Quesne  saw  at  last  that  the  thing 
he  had  smiled  at  as  impossible  was  the  thing  which  would 
happen.     Lin  meant  to  go. 

The  clock  chimed  ten.  Marion  knocked,  and  entered  witii 
the  supper-tray. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  said,  in  surprise,  "  there's  no  lights  ! " 

"  Put  the  tray  down,"  Le  Quesne  said,  "  we  will  ring  when 
we  are  ready." 

The  girl  withdrew  and  closed  the  door, 

"  Lin,  I  will  leave  you  to  yourself.  I  am  tired,  and  want 
nothing.     You  are  overdone,  and  will  be  better  alone." 

Lin  stood  upright.  He  felt  as  if  the  dark  room  were  reeling 
about  with  him ;  he  put  his  hand  back  to  the  wall  to  steady 
himself. 


350  annie  2)cane 

"  One  moment,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  shiky  as  he  said 
it ;  "  shall  I  tell  Harker  as  I — leave — that  he  has  to  take  my 
place  in  your  dressing-room  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  feel  sure  you  will  sleep  there  yourself, 
as  usual." 

*'  I  shall  not.  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  have  never  given 
you  any  excuse.  This  is  a  matter  upon  which  I  have  spoken 
my  mind  more  than  once,  with  a  plainness  which  you  could 
not  have  mistaken.  I  have  said  that  if  I  forgive  that  man  I 
condone  his  vile  offence ;  if  I  condone  it  I  descend  to  his  level, 
and  am  one  with  him.  You  are  the  man — the  rest  goes 
without  saying.     It  is  a  matter  of  principle  :  principles  stand" 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  pride ;  pride  gives  way,  and  you  will  not 
sacrifice  me  to  yours." 

"Will  you  answer  my  question  about  Harker?  If  it  has 
been  necessary  for  me  to  occupy  your  dressing-room  at  night, 
it  is  necessary  for  some  one  to  do  so  when  I  am — gone.  I  am 
not  leaving  you  in  a  childish  fit  of  passion.  I  never  felt  less 
passionate  in  my  life.  I  am  leaving  you  because  I  can  do 
nothing  else,  because  knowing  what  I  do  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  stay." 

"  Take  until  Monday,  and  think  it  over.  Then  if  you  find 
me  too  hateful — ^you  shall  go.  I  will  not  say  a  word  to  detain 
you." 

"  No ;  I  am  going — now.  I  could  not  be  with  you  and  do 
less  for  you  than  I  have  done ;  I  could  not  look  at  you  without 
feeling  that  for  us  to  be  together,  knowing  each  other^  would  be 
too — horrible  ! " 

"  You  are  quite  sure  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  sure." 

The  lifeless  voice  went  straight  to  Le  Quesne's  heart.  He 
felt  for  Lin  more  than  he  felt  for  himself. 

**  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  free  agent,  and  must  do  as 
you  like.  I  think  you  are  deciding  against  me  too  hastily,  but 
perhaps  I  am  wrong ;  perhaps  I  have  not  hitherto  realised  the 
hold  your  hatred  of  your  mother's  betrayer  has  obtained  over 
you.  I  stick  to  my  opinion  of  you,  however,  and  whether  we 
meet  again  or  not,  I  shall  stick  to  it  still.  You  are  a  lot  better 
than  you  think  you  are,  and  if  you  leave  me  now  the  time  is 
not  far  distant  when  you  will  wish  you  had  not.  I  have 
spun  you  down  a  bit  roughly,  but  you  are  genuine  metal,  Lin, 
and,  sooner  or  later,  you  will  ring  true." 

He  made  no  response.  Hopeless,  sullen,  and  very  sore  of 
heart,  he    stood  there  leaning  against  the  wall,  hugging  his 


Beserteb  3S» 

pride  under  the  guise  of  self-respect,  yet  knowing  that 
somewhere  deep  down  in  him  something  was  struggling  to 
respond  to  the  voice  and  the  touch  of  the  man  beside 
him. 

"  For  the  time  will  come,"  Le  Quesne  went  on  cheerily, 
"  when  in  thinking  of  me  you  will  wonder  how  you  could  have 
thought  me  quite  so  black.  I  don't  mean  in  my  aspect 
towards  your  mother — I  mean  in  my  relationship  to  you.  I 
have  done  you  no  great  harm.  You  say  1  have  tricked  you  ? 
Well,  that  is  true,  and  a  trick  is  a  dishonest  thing  ;  but  honesty 
would  have  scared  you  away  from  me,  and  I  wanted  you. 
Surely  a  pardonable  trick  ?  If  I  have  tried  to  gain  by  stratagem 
that  to  which  I  have  forfeited  my  right,  I  do  not  think  you 
need  resent  it  quite  so  bitterly  ;  if  1  have  been  too  sanguine  of 
success,  thinking  that  the  son  of  so  merciful  a  mother  must  be 
merciful  too,  I  think  it  is  a  mistake  for  which  you  need  not  be 
so  slow  to  pardon  me.  But  you  think  differently,  and  you  say 
that  you  must  go.  I  am  sorry.  I  believe  you  will  forgive  me, 
and  come  back  to  me.  Will  you  give  me  your  hand  ?  .  .  .  No  ? 
.  .  .  Will  you  let  me  take  yours  ?  .  .  .  No  ?  .  .  .  Impossible, 
is  it  ?  Well,  then,  never  mind.  I  must  wait.  Time  and  the 
Great  Reconciler  will  bring  me  better  luck." 

He  waited  a  moment — moved  away — lingered  again,  saw  it 
was  hopeless,  and,  leaving  the  room,  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

Unhappy  Lin  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  felt  that  life  was 
over.  Yet,  why  was  it  over?  If  this  man  were  so  vile,  why 
should  separation  from  him  be  a  matter  of  regret  ?  He 
would  not  regret  it.  He  would  get  into  harness,  and  get 
to  work  again.  Surely  a  pleasant  thought,  a  cheerful, 
comforting  thought  ?  He  would  go  to  India  with  kind-hearted 
little  "Madame."  Travelling  through  a  strange  land  would 
be  the  thing  for  him.  Life  was  all  in  front  of  him,  and  he 
would  forget  what  lay  behind.  Oh  !  he  was  quite  himself, 
ready  to  go,  eager  to  go,  but — he  sat  on  that  chair  with  his 
head  on  his  breast,  and  his  arms  hanging  loosely  down  at  his 
sides.  Apparently  he  was  in  no  hurry,  perhaps  because  for 
to-night  he  could  get  no  farther  than  Merryon  Square. 

As  he  sat  in  the  dark  there  came  to  him  a  sound,  a 
very  ordinary  sound,  but  he  started  to  his  feet,  while 
all  the  blood  he  had  surged  in  a  wave  to  his  head.  It 
was  the  ringing  of  Le  Quesne's  bedroom  bell.  Lin  walked 
across  the  room  and  listened,  then  walked  deliberately  back. 
The  bell  was  no  more  to  him  than  the  man  who  had  rung  it 


Hnnte  Beane 

would  answer  it  presently.    Whether  they  did  or 
.  no  business  of  his. 
iS  the  clock  chimed  half-past  ten,  Marion  reappeared,  or 
rould  have  done  so  had  it  been  light  enough. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  as  Lin  struck  a  match.  "  I 
thought  I  heard  you  go  into  Mr.  Le  Quesne's  room." 

"  No.  Can  I  get  into  my  room  without  going  through 
his?" 

"  Into  his  dressing-room,  sir  ?  Oh,  yes !  Up  the  back 
staircase  and  through  the  other  door." 

Lin  went  slowly  down  to  the  hall,  found  the  servants' 
staircase,  mounted  it,  and,  entering  his  room,  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  fact  that  the  door  between  it  and  the  next  one 
was  half-way  open.  His  first  impulse  was  to  shut  it,  his  next 
to  let  it  alone.  What  did  it  matter,  open  or  shut?  He  was  no 
sneak.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  man  in  that  room,  surely  ? 
He  pulled  himself  up  sharply  as  he  realised  that  he  was. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  Why,  that  in  some  way  or  other  he  felt 
— to  blame.  He  had  no  wish  to  walk  out  of  that  house  except 
in  serenest  assurance  of — right.  Had  he  anything  to  regret  ? 
He  tried  to  recall  all  that  had  passed.  Yes — there  was  no 
denying  that  Le  Quesne  had  had  the  best  of  him — had  been 
temperate,  just,  and  generous.  Had  he  been  either?  No, 
he  had  not.  He  had  taunted  this  man  with  whining  about 
fancied  misfortunes — he  who  aspired  to  be  just !  He  thought 
of  him  as  he  had  seen  him  first,  when  the  world  went  well  with 
him ;  he  thought  of  him  as  he  had  seen  him  again,  when  he 
stood  to  face  defeat  with  a  self-possession  savouring  of 
heroism;  he  thought  of  the  days  through  which  they  had 
passed  together  since.  Dark  days  of  physical  suffering  and 
breathless  torture,  of  fainting  weariness  and  utter  prostration  of 
mind  and  body.  Had  he  ever  "whined"?  ever  been  im- 
patient, or  anything  but  gratefully  considerate  to  those  about 
him  ?  Lin  got  up.  Clearly  here  he  had  been  wrong ;  he  must 
own  it  He  pushed  open  the  door  and  stood  inside.  There 
was  light  in  the  room  from  a  shaded  lamp  in  a  far  corner, 
Le  Quesne,  still  fully  dressed,  had  been  lying  down,  but  he 
slowly  rose  and  stood  before  his  stern  young  censor  in  silence. 
Lin  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  I  apologise  for  disturbing  you.  I  only  wish  to  say  that  if 
to-night  I  have  been  extravagant  or  unjust,  I  am  sorry  for 
having  been  so." 

Le  Quesne  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

**  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  am  moved  by  any  mean  spirit 


Deserteb  353 

of   resentment — that  I    am    going  because    I    want  to    be 
revenged — " 

He  stopped,  perhaps  expecting  to  be  helped  out.  Such  help 
was  not  forthcoming. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  feel  sure  that  you  will  not 
suffer  by  my — leaving  you ;  that  my  place  will  be  filled  by 
some  one  who  will  make  up  in  skill  what  only  affection  has 
done  for  you  through  me — " 

He  stopped  again.  At  the  word  "affection'*  something 
in  him  gave  way.  He  had  not  meant  to  say  it,  but  having  said 
it,  it  choked  him.  He  felt  that  for  the  turning  of  a  straw  he 
could  have  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  and  sobbed.  Had 
any  advance  come  from  the  other  side  then,  had  the  hand 
which  he  had  refused  not  long  before  been  offered  him  again, 
had  the  husky  voice  for  which  he  was  listening  with  a  heart- 
hunger  that  he  would  not  own  have  said  but  one  word  to  him, 
things  might  have  been  different ;  but  Le  Quesne  had  said  his 
last,  had  given  in,  and  the  moment  of  opportunity  slipped.  Lin 
hesitated,  feeling  that  he  had  not  said  what  he  wanted  to  say, 
that  he  was  not  leaving  with  that  assurance  of  right  which  alone 
could  justify  him  in  doing  what  he  was  about  to  do.  He 
repeated  to  himself  the  old  jargon  about  self-respect  and 
principle,  and  simple  appreciation  of  right  and  wrong ;  but  all 
these  dignified  hangings  in  which  he  sought  to  take  the  shelter 
of  justification  came  down  about  his  ears,  and  turned  into  the 
sorriest  rags  that  ever  hung  between  a  man  and  his  better 
instincts.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the  dim,  standing 
figure  only  a  few  feet  away ;  but  it  was  so  motionless,  so 
unapproachable  that  Lin  steadied  again,  and,  turning,  felt  for 
the  door. 

The  standing  figure  swayed  a  little  then — moved  a  pace 
forward,  grasping  the  rail  of  the  bed.  Lin  did  not  see  the 
movement,  having  already  passed  into  the  next  room,  leaving 
the  door  of  communication  a  little  open,  as  he  had  found  it. 
In  another  minute  he  had  taken  up  the  trifling  articles  of  his 
own  which  lay  on  drawers  and  dressing-table,  and  had  passed 
through  the  outer  door,  closing  it  behind  him.  In  the  hall 
he  stopped.  In  a  corner  stood  two  portmanteaux,  with  a 
strapped-up  bundle  of  sticks  and  umbrellas  and  travelling-rugs. 
Harker  could  take  one  of  those  portmanteaux  back  and  unpack 
it ;  the  other  could  be  sent  on  to  Merryon  Square.  Lin 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  his  hat  from  the  stand,  starting 
like  a  girl  at  Harker's  step  behind  him. 

"Going  out,  sir?" 

z 


354  Snnie  Deane 

"Yes,  Harker!" 

The  man  lingered,  looking  puzzled. 

'*  Want  a  breath  of  air,  sir  ?     It's  a  fine  night.** 

Lin  stood  irresolute,  his  heart  beating  in  his  throat. 

"  Harker  ! "  he  said,  with  his  back  to  the  man. 

"  Yes,  sir ! » 

"  I  am  not  coming  back.  Will  you  sleep  in  Mr. — Le 
Quesne's — dressing-room  until  Dr.  Helston  has  filled  my 
place?  I  am  not  saying  that  it  is  necessary,  but  I  have 
accustomed  him  to  a  good  bit  of  attention.  I  am  a  light 
sleeper,  and  don't  mind  turning  out.  Don't  let  him  miss  it — 
if  you  can  help  it." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  held  the  man  out  half-a- 
sovereign.  It  was  the  remnant  of  his  professional  earnings. 
Le  Quesne  had  given  him  some  notes  only  that  morning 
wherewith  to  defray  the  expenses  of  Monday's  journey,  but  he 
had  left  them  and  the  remains  of  one  already  changed  upstairs. 

Harker  looked  longingly  at  the  proffered  coin. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "I'd  rather  not.  I've  saved  a 
few  o'  them  in  my  time,  but  I'd  rather  give  a  few  than  know 
you  was  leavin'  him  alone,  sir." 

"  He  must  not  be  alone,  Harker.  You  must  take  care  oi 
that.     You  won't  forget  ?     Good-night !  " 

Opening  the  door,  he  stepped  aimlessly  out  to  the  moonlit 
street.  He  supposed  he  must  go  to  Merryon  Square.  It  was 
the  only  home  he  had.  Home?  He  thought  of  the  word 
with  something  like  a  sob.  No  desolate  waif  in  all  London 
to-night  felt  more  desolate  and  homeless  than  did  he ! 

Midnight,  and  another  hour  gone  by.  Annie  Deane,  lying 
anxious  and  wakeful,  heard  the  clocks  chime  one  after  the 
other,  and  wondered  why  she  felt  so  restless.  Surely  she  was 
foolish  to  be  apprehensive  ?  God  was  in  His  heaven,  and  would 
do  all  things  well.  Who  had  better  reason  to  believe  in  that 
than  she? 

Calmed  by  the  thought,  she  was  growing  drowsy,  when  she 
was  roused  again  by  the  sound  of  wheels.  In  another  moment 
the  street-bell,  pealing  through  the  house,  had  startled  all 
three  people  in  it.  Annie  hurried  on  some  clothing,  and, 
descending,  opened  the  door.  She  could  not  have  told  why  she 
was  sure  of  seeing  Harker,  but  she  was  sure,  and  there  he  stood. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said  piteously.     "  What  is  wrong  ?  " 

"  I'll  see  Mr.  Warrener,  please,"  was  Harker's  careful  answer, 
"and  tell  him." 


2)escrtct)  355 

•*  Mr.  Warrener  ?     My  son  ?     He  isn't  here." 

"  Oh,  good  Lord ! "  said  Harker,  more  in  distress  than 
irreverence.  "  I  made  that  sure  of  findin'  him  here — I  never 
give  it  a  second  thought.  Can't  you  tell  me  where  to  find 
him  ?  " 

"Come  inside,"  she  said  rapidly.  "I  left  my  son  at  your 
house  this  afternoon.     Tell  me  what  has  happened  since." 

Harker  told  her  what  he  knew. 

"  It  was  near  eleven  when  Mr.  Warrener  came  down  into  the 
hall.  He  told  me  he  was  goin'  out,  and  that  he  shouldn't 
come  back.  I  promised  him  I'd  take  his  place  in  the  dressin'- 
room,  and  at  half-past  eleven  I  went  up  to  Mr.  Le  Quesne's 
room  and  listened.  I  couldn't  hear  a  sound,  I  knocked,  and 
got  no  answer.  I  went  round  then  to  the  dressin'-room  by  the 
back  staircase  and  knocked  there.  I  got  no  answer  again, 
so  I  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  He'd  knelt  down  by  Mr. 
Warrener's  bed,  and  had  stretched  his  arms  across  it.  His 
hands  were  twisted  in  the  counterpane  as  if  they  had  clenched 
in  pain.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  lifted  him  up.  Dead  ?  No — 
no  1  Thank  God,  he  isn't  dead ;  but  if  I  say  what  /  think — 
there's  very  little  hope  of  him." 

"  Hasn't  he  said  anything  ?  "  she  asked  stolidly. 

"Never  a  word,  except  when  he  first  come  round.  '  Harker,* 
says  he,  '  Mr.  Warrener  took  his  latch-key.  Don't  bolt  the  door 
— he  may  want  to  get  in.' " 

"  Wait  one  minute,"  Annie  said  with  decisive  brevity.  "  I 
won't  keep  you,  but  I'm  goin'  back  with  you  in  the  cab." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"on  a  long  and  distant  journey" 

"  If  Mr.  Warrener  comes  here,  send  him  straight  on  to  me  at 
Mr.  Le  Quesne's." 

This  was  the  message  left  at  Merryon  Square  by  Annie.  Lin 
did  not  receive  it,  however,  for  he  did  not  go  to  Merryon 
Square  at  all.  He  drifted  on  and  on — aimlessly,  as  he  had 
drifted  out — with  head  and  heart  left  behind  him.  A  summer 
night  in  the  open  is  no  great  hardship,  and  a  starry  sky  is 
kinder  than  a  roof  to  a  man  in  trouble.  Anyway,  Lin  sought 
the  shelter  of  no  roof  that  night,  and  felt  that  the  most 
hospitable  one  under  Heaven  would  have  stifled  him.  But  he 
could  not  get  far  away,  and  when,  on  looking  drearily  about,  he 
found  himself  surrounded  by  the  ghastly  skeletons  of  new 
buildings,  some  time  to  be  the  homes  of  men,  but  at  present 
surrounded  by  piles  of  raw  material,  and  bounded  by  dingy 
pasture-land  or  dingier  market-garden,  he  turned  and  slowly 
retraced  his  steps,  until  the  suburban  houses,  wrapped  in  night 
silence,  closing  him  in,  told  him  that  he  was  near  home.  He 
smiled  as  that  thought  crossed  him.  There  would  be  but  a 
cold  welcome  for  him  in  Merryon  Square  when  his  mother 
knew  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  He  doubted  whether  the  same 
home  would  ever  again  be  practicable  for  him  and  her.  She 
would  never  forgive  him. 

"  Evil  is  her  good  where  you  are  concerned,"  he  had  told  Le 
Quesne  bitterly.  Almost  could  he  have  persuaded  himself  to 
say,  "  Where  you  are  concerned,  let  evil  be  my  good  too." 
For  the  more  he  tried  to  get  away  from  it,  the  more  he  realised 
how  much  of  good  there  was  in  this  man.  If  it  were  good  to 
be  patient,  if  it  were  good  to  be  brave,  if  it  were  good  to  be 
generous,  if  it  were  good  to  be  unselfish — then  was  Lindsay  Le 
Quesne  a  good  man,  in  spite  of  the  sin  of  his  youth.  Of  the 
struggle  which  tore  Lin's  very  heart  asunder  before  he  could 
bring  himself  to  own  this  naked  truth,  it  would  take  too  long  to 
tell ;  of  the  struggle  which  followed  the  acknowledgment  of| 
that  truth  it  would  be  impossible  to  speak  intelligibly,  so  fiercej 
was  it,  so  keen,  and  so  confused,  raging  ever  round  one  quiet 
figure,  the  supreme  dignity  of  which  it  could  not  touch. 

3S6 


**  ©n  a  %om  anb  distant  ^ourne^  "      357 

*'  I  have  sinned.  I  acknowledge  it.  I  have  repented,  and 
have  accepted  my  punishment.  God  asks  no  more  than  this, 
why  should  you — you,  who,  in  spite  of  your  fancied  wrongs, 
stand  more  worthily  in  the  ranks  of  men  to-day  than  if /had 
been  responsible  for  your  upbringing  ?  " 

Another  truth  of  the — apparently — inverted  order.  Lin 
seized  it,  ready  to  prove  it  a  lie.  He  could  prove  nothing,  save 
that  it  was  truth.  He  did  stand  worthily  in  the  ranks  of  men, 
thanks  to  himself,  and  to  none  other.  He  had  learned  what  it 
was  to  stand  alone,  to  be  self-reliant,  and  he  who  learns  that  is 
"  clad  in  complete  steel,"  fearless,  with  leisure  to  use  his  eyes, 
with  hberty  to  be  himself.  Without  any  undue  elation,  he  saw 
that  all  he  knew  worth  knowing  his  poverty  and  his  independence 
had  taught  him. 

Then,  again,  had  he  suffered  any  loss  directly  traceable  to  this 
man's  door  ?  Was  he  not  to-day  exactly  what  of  all  things  he 
would  have  chosen  to  be  ?  Could  he  say  with  any  truth,  "  But 
for  the  stain  upon  my  birth,  I  might  have  been  so-and-so,  or 
so-and-so  ?  "  He  was  a  pleasantly-successful  artist,  popular  and 
content,  leading  a  life  of  his  own  selection,  and  that  by  no  man's 
favour  or  patronage.  Here,  too,  the  quiet  voice  he  knew  had 
something  to  say  to  him  : 

"  Do  you  owe  me  nothing  on  the  score  of  inheritance  ? 
Whence  comes  your  voice,  if  not  from  mine  ?  What  has  been 
the  love  of  your  life  since  boyhood?  The  love  of  music 
transmitted  to  you  by  me.     The  best  I  had  to  give  is  yours." 

Oh  !  that  quiet  figure  standing  in  the  gloom  of  a  semi-lighted 
room,  how  it  haunted  him  !  Turn  where  he  would,  he  saw  it. 
The  very  sin  with  which  the  figure  was  burdened  failed  to  cast 
the  shadow  about  it  that  he  tried  to  see,  so  hedged  about  was 
it  with  love's  own  radiance.  In  vain  he  tried  to  keep  the  story 
of  his  birth  well  in  front  of  him,  to  remember  his  mother's 
blighted  youth  and  toilsome  middle-age ;  in  vain  he  told  him- 
self that  forgiveness  of  these  things  was  not  in  human  nature.  In 
thenext  moment  hefound  himself  wondering — wondering — with 
drawn  brows  and  suspended  breath,  like  one  who  listens  in  fear. 
Would  Jie  be  all  right  to-night  ?  If  he  were  ill,  would  he  let 
Harker  do  for  him  what  he,  Lin,  had  been  used  to  do  ?  He 
thought  not,  for  though  Le  Quesne  had  disguised  nothing  from 
him,  he  had  turned  from  the  sympathy  ofothers  with  the  sensitive, 
shrinking  pain  of  an  erstwhile  sovereign,  now  discrowned.  Lin 
set  his  teeth  in  rage.  What  to  him  was  the  man,  or  his  loneli- 
ness, or  his  pain?  Nothing — nothing!  Said  the  voice  of 
truth  within  him  :  "  How  can  you  say  that  ?     He  is  the  one 


358  Hnnte  Dcane 

reality  of  your  life  to-night.  How  can  he  be  ?  Never  mind 
how.  He  is,  and  all  the  '  how '  and  '  why '  in  the  world 
beating  against  that  fact  cannot  do  away  with  it  as  a  fact." 

"  Well,"  said  Lin,  the  self  opinionated  and  obstinate,  "  this 
proves  that  I  am  leaving  him  in  no  mean  spirit  of  resentment. 
I  can  still  wish  him  well,  still  hope  that  some  one  will  be  good  to 
him — oh !  very  good  to  him — but  that  could  not  be  me  1 " 

"  Could  it  not  ?  then  why,  as  you  think  of  him  tended  by 
others,  is  there  something  in  your  heart  that  feels  like  jealousy  ?  " 

Lin  set  his  teeth  again. 

"  I  have  not  had  time  to  forget  him,"  he  said  to  the  pitiless 
voice ;  "  indiflference  does  not  come  all  at  once." 

He  walked  on,  while  the  stars  paled  and  the  grey  dawn  laid  a 
chill  hand  upon  him,  body  and  mind.  He  was  so  very  wretched, 
poor  Lin  !  He  could  not  give  in ;  he  honestly  felt  he  was 
making  a  gallant  stand  for  his  principles;  so  he  hugged  his 
righteousness  to  his  bosom,  and  got  no  warmth  from  the  dry 
bones  thereof.  Affectionate  he  was — rarely  so  for  a  man ;  his 
association  with  Le  Quesne  had  taught  him  how  much  love 
for  another  can  take  a  man  out  of  himself;  he  had  learnt  much 
of  what  love  for  another  means,  much — but  not  all. 

And,  indeed,  it  is  given  to  very  few,  that  power  of  going  the 
whole  length  !  It  had  been  given  to  poor,  despised  Jim  Drake 
in  days  gone  by,  when  he  had  said  to  the  girl  who  had  sinned, 
"  Never  mind  what  you  have  done,  since  it  was  you  who  did  it. 
It  cannot  make  any  difference  between  you  and  me."  But  then 
Jim  was  only  a  common  man,  who  went  his  way  untrammelled 
by  the  fetters  of  pride  or  self-righteousness. 

As  the  sun  rose  over  the  dim  city,  transfiguring  it,  Lin  realised 
that  he  was  tired,  also  that  it  was  Sunday  morning.  This  last  was 
an  irritating  reflection.  He  could  do  nothing  to-day — nothing 
at  all  ?  Well,  he  could  call  on  "  Madame  "  later  on,  and  let  her 
know  that  he  was  at  liberty.  By  the  end  of  the  week  he  would 
probably  be  far  away. 

As  the  sun  rose  higher  he  turned  into  one  of  the  parks  and 
sat  down.  The  narrow  river  was  breaking  up  into  innumerable 
little  diamond  sparkles ;  every  blade  of  grass  as  it  quivered 
under  the  morning  breeze  let  fall  a  gem ;  the  trees,  "  waving 
their  long  arms  to  and  fro,"  made  a  lulling  sound  like  the  wash 
of  a  low  tide  on  a  level  shore.  The  sound  smote  straight  to 
Lin's  heart,  and  the  tears  rose  in  his  sullen  eyes.  They  were 
to  have  gone  to  the  sea  to-morrow,  he  and  that  other  one — they 
would  not  go  now.  Ife  would  not  care  to  go  with  a  stranger. 
Lin  started  up.     The  long,  low  sighing  was  unbearable — it 


**©n  a  Xona  an&  Distant  Jotttncs"      359 

crept  about  him  as  the  night  breeze  had  done  in  that  dusky- 
room  last  night  "  Pity  him  !  "  it  said  eerily.  "  Go  back  to 
him.  Go  back  to  him  j  he  said  you  would."  Lin  turned  and 
fled  as  from  a  ghost.  He  walked  about  again  until  eight 
o'clock,  when  he  found  himself  near  a  church.  Leaning 
against  the  railings,  he  sa.vf  a  man  come  and  unlock  the  church 
door,  and  soon  after  the  bell  struck  out  for  early  service.  The 
worshippers  were  mostly  women— poor,  unpretentious,  chiefly 
old  or  middle-aged.  The  late  June  sunshine,  painfully  bright 
to  eyes  that  had  watched  the  night  out,  made  the  cool  darkness 
of  the  church  inviting,  and  Lin  drifted  in  with  the  rest.  He 
sat  down  just  inside,  frowning  in  weary  impatience  at  the 
officious  woman  who  instantly  pounced  upon  him  to  show  him 
to  a  seat. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay,"  he  said  sullenly,  "  I  only  want  a 
rest." 

The  woman  let  him  alone. 

He  had  no  intention  of  staying  or  of  joining  in  the  service, 
but  at  the  first  words  from  the  altar  he  lifted  his  head  and  tried 
to  see  the  man  who  uttered  them.  Not  that  he  needed  his 
eyes  to  tell  him  who  the  man  was.  That  sonorous,  penetrat- 
ing, soul-stirring  voice  could  belong  to  no  other  than  to  Frank 
Netherwood.  Having  found  out  this,  Lin  sat  still  with  a  sense 
of  returning  calm.  To  be  where  Ae  was  must  of  necessity 
mean  something  good. 

The  service  was  extremely  short,  the  prescribed  "homily" 
being  omitted.  When  it  came  to  the  offertory,  Netherwood — 
not  for  the  first  time — laid  himself  open  to  the  charge  of 
heterodox  tendencies  in  that  he  did  deliberately  add  to  and 
take  from  the  list  of  sentences  provided  by  the  Church  for  the 
officiating  priest.  One  or  two  straw-splitting  Pharisees  had 
more  than  once  made  indignant  protest,  but  the  offender  had 
smiled,  and  his  Bishop  had  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

Speaking  from  the  fulness  of  his  own  heart  to  the  hearts  of 
those  present,  desiring  not  even  his  own  wealth  of  content  and 
happiness  while  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  spiritual  poverty 
of  others,  he  raised  his  voice  in  its  mingled  strength  and 
sweetness : 

"Whoso  hath  this  world's  goods,  and  seeth  another  have 
need,  and  shutteth  up  his  compassion  from  him — how  dwelleth 
the  love  of  God  in  him  ?  " 


36o  Sniifc  Dcanc 

"  While  we  have  time  " — he  stopped,  turned  his  pale  face  and 
shining  eyes  upon  the  standing  people  as  one  who  would 
impress  upon  them  how  little  time  there  is — "  while  wc  have 
tittUf  let  us  do  good  unto  all  men." 


"  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto  you,  even 
so  do  unto  them ;  for  this  is  the  Law  and  the  Prophets." 


There  was  still  a  moment  left  The  great  heart  that  beat 
with  those  among  which  it  lived,  that  felt  for  them,  knowing 
their  needs,  that  could  not  send  them  away  empty  while  it  had 
aught  to  give,  spoke  out  again  without  the  book,  while  the  deep 
voice  through  which  it  spoke  echoed  and  thrilled  in  the  distant 
comers  of  the  half-filled  church : 

"  This  is  the  covenant  that  I  will  make  with  them  after  those 
days,  saith  the  Lord.  I  will  put  my  laws  into  their  hearts,  and 
in  their  minds  will  I  write  them ;  and  their  sins  and  iniquities  I 
will  remember  no  more." 

Lin  Warrener,  stricken  and  ashamed,  with  that  divine  promise 
in  his  ears,  rose  and  stumbled  out  again  to  the  brilliant,  sunlit 
street.  Merryon  Square  was  no  home  for  him — the  church 
oflFered  him  no  shelter.  Charity  dwelt  in  these  places,  and  with 
Charity  he  was  not  in  touch.  He  knew  it  now.  Netherwood 
had  not  exchanged  services  for  nothing. 

Lin  wandered  back  to  the  park  and  sat  down  again,  with  the 
"  soughing  "  in  his  ears  that  was  like  the  wash  of  the  waves  on 
the  shore.  He  did  not  mind  it  now.  It  hurt  him  ?  Well,  he 
deserved  to  be  hurt — he  who  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  a  man's 
misery,  had  hugged  his  pride  and  called  it  principle.  He 
hugged  it  still,  but  he  knew  it  for  what  it  was.  He  was  no 
nearer  going  back  to  Le  Quesne  than  he  had  been  before.  One 
devil  cast  out,  four  or  five  entered  and  tore  him. 

"  How  can  you  go  back  ? "  said  one ;  "  you  made  such  a 
stand,  and  were  so  positive.  You  would  have  to  own  yourself 
all  wrong,  which  you  are  not." 

"  Besides,"  said  another,  "  he  is  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world. 
He  has  given  you  to  understand  more  than  once  that  he  has 
made  provision  for  you.  You  did  not  understand  then,  now 
you  do.     He  will  think  that  you  return  to  him  to  secure  that." 

Lin's  white  face  turned  scarlet  at  the  thought. 

"  He  won't,  he  won't,"  his  heart  said  quietly ;  "  he  knows 
me  better." 


**®n  a  Xona  an&  distant  bournes*'      361 

And  then  he  temporised  with  that  subtle  devil  of  Inde- 
pendence. 

"  How  would  it  be  to  get  back  to  work  again,  and  having 
done  so,  to  drift  back  gradually  into  intercourse  with  him? 
Then,  if  he  wished  it,  if  I  saw  that  I  was  really  necessary  to 
him—" 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  devil,  "  the  very  thing  that  would  show 
beyond  dispute  that  you  wanted  nothing  of  him." 

Lin  was  beginning  to  sneak  out  of  the  difficulty  by  a  back 
way. 

"While  we  have  time,"  said  Netherwood's  voice — "while 
we  have  time — " 

"  There  is — plenty  of  time,"  said  a  fresh  adversary  ;  "  he  is 
not  dying ;  he  is  better — much  better.     There  is  no  hurry." 

But  above  the  voices  of  the  devil-crew,  the  voice  of  Lin's 
better  self  did  from  time  to  time  make  itself  heard  in  no 
uncertain  tone. 

"  He  is  so  lonely,"  it  said,  "  and  every  hour  of  even  this  day 
will  be  like  two  to  him  !  Besides,  he  is  so  sure  to  be  knocked 
up.  If  this  has  upset  you,  what  effect  do  you  think  it  will  have 
upon  a  man  who  has  been  ill  for  months,  and  whose  fear  of 
losing  you  has  kept  him  down?  Think  what  a  fear  it  must 
have  been,  think  what  he  must  have  suffered  when  he  heard 
you  talk  of  him  as  of  the  lowest  criminal  unhung !  Think  of 
the  struggle  he  must  have  passed  through  before  he  resolved  to 
make  that  terrible  confession  !  Think  of  his  voice  as  he  made 
it,  of  the  imploring  grip  of  his  icy  hand  I  And  you  struck  it 
away  from  you." 

Said  Lin  in  torture  :  "  If  I  could  forget  all  else,  there  is  the 
horrid  tie  between  us.  How  can  I  go  back — remembering 
thai?" 

That  tie  was  the  last  stumbling-block.  As  far  as  that  he 
could  get,  but  no  farther ;  it  turned  him  back  again  and  again. 
All  else  his  love  for  the  man  could  conquer,  but  that  thought 
conquered  him.  Le  Quesne  himself  had  known  how  it  would 
be  when  he  had  heard  the  strained  voice  say,  "  For  us  to  be 
together — knowing  each  other — would  be  too  horrible  ! "  And 
he  had  said  to  himself,  with  a  hopeless  smile,  "  The  tie  which 
should  have  bound  us  is  the  sword  that  divides  us ;  what  a  man 
sows,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 


The  day  wore  on.     Lin,  heavy-eyed  from  want  of  sleep,  and 
faint  from  unaccustomed  fasting,  still  drifted  here  and  there. 


36a  Bnnle  H)eane 

sometimes  driven  by  the  goad  of  his  own  thoughts,  sometimes 
by  the  near  proximity  of  people  whom  he  felt  rather  than  saw. 
After  a  while  he  ceased  to  think  connectedly  at  all,  being  too 
tired.  Thought  drifted  aimlessly,  as  he  did.  When  the  bells 
chimed  for  morning  service  they  turned  into  the  "  Hiawatha," 
and  sung  it  to  him  not  unwelcomely — the  quaint  and  beautiful 
thing  that  he  loved.  Even  when  the  bells  had  ceased  it 
remained  with  him.  A  musical  brain  is  seldom  empty  of 
rhythm. 

"I  am  going 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  North-West  wind — Keewaydin.* 

The  hush  of  service-time  settled  over  everything — brooded 
— lifted — passed  away.  The  Park  was  alive  with  a  gay  throng 
of  fashionable  people,  and  Lin,  retreating  to  a  quiet  corner, 
flung  himself  down  on  the  warm  and  friendly  earth,  wrapped 
in  bodily  and  mental  apathy.  For  a  while  the  song  of  the  bells 
remained  with  him,  shifting  to  and  fro ;  but  at  last,  when  the 
sun  had  started  on  its  westward  course,  and  the  curious, 
dreamy  quiet  which  belongs  to  a  Sunday  afternoon  pervaded 
everything,  his  tired  brain  gave  way,  and  he  slept. 


He  thought  he  was  in  a  boat  with  Le  Quesne,  drifting  fast 
and  faster  on  the  full  tide  of  a  summer  sea,  away,  away,  to  the 
horizon  line,  until  nothing  was  to  be  seen  around  them  but  sea 
and  sky,  between  which  their  boat  seemed  to  be  suspended  like 
a  toy.  He  thought  he  began  to  fear,  and  to  say  to  his  com- 
panion that  they  were  out  too  far  to  get  back  in  safety  by 
nightfall.  But  Le  Quesne,  with  sad  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon 
line,  made  no  answer.  And  Lin  grew  more  and  more  afraid, 
for  that  arching  line,  as  they  flew  on,  ceasing  to  fly  before 
them,  stood,  and  turned  into  a  shining  wall,  in  which  was  a 
door  wide  enough  to  admit  many  men  at  once.  When  they 
had  drifted  right  up  to  it,  Le  Quesne  stepped  on  to  the  edge 
of  the  boat,  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  world  that  he  was 
quitting,  and  from  there  to  Lin. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said ;  "  your  pride  has  brought  me  to  the 
end  of  my  journey.  I  wanted  to  have  lingered  with  you,  for 
you  were  dear  to  me ;  but  you  nave  brought  me  here,  and  I 
must  stay,  while  you  go  back  into  the  world  of  men — alone," 


**®n  a  %om  an&  Distant  ^ournei?"      363 

Lin  saw  him  step  off  and  enter  the  gate  in  the  shining  wall. 
But  as  he  stretched  his  hands  towards  that  gate,  with  a  prayer 
to  be  admitted  too,  the  voice,  growing  fainter  in  the  distance, 
told  him  that  he  could  not  come  yet. 

"  Go  back,"  it  said  sorrowfully,  "  over  the  troubled  sea  of 
human  life,  to  learn  your  lesson  as  I  learned  mine — to  make  of 
your  mistakes  the  stepping-stones  to  better  things.  Don't 
lament  things  gone.  Make  of  repentance  a  future  to  be  lived 
rather  than  a  past  to  be  brooded  over.  For  me,  I  am  no  more 
with  you  or  of  you.  Love  and  Hate  alike  are  powerless  to 
wake  in  me  an  answer.     I  am  content," 

•  ••••••• 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  looked  about  him,  at  the  green 
of  the  waving  trees,  at  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun,  at  the  brown 
of  the  laughing  river ;  he  felt  his  own  warm,  living  flesh.  He 
was  alive,  and  not  in  the  land  of  shadows.  So,  thank  God  ! 
was  that  other,  and  he  would  go  back  to  him.  They  would 
still  have  some  time  together,  they  would  go  on  that  journey 
to-morrow  after  all,  would  spend  their  summer  days  upon  the 
sea.  He  would  forget  the  awful  bar  between  them.  He 
could  never  make  of  it  a  fte,  but  it  must  be  forgotten — like  the 
rest.  To  him  the  man  must  always  be  "  Lindsay  Le  Quesne  " ; 
that,  and  nothing  else. 

•  ••••••» 

In  the  early  dusk  of  the  summer  evening,  when  the  great 
red  moon  was  rising  and  the  London  streets  were  thronged 
with  people  who  had  no  time  to  notice  him,  he  went  very  slowly 
back.  Not  all  willingly,  any  more  than  all  unwillingly — not 
all  shrinkingly,  any  more  than  all  eagerly— not  from  duty, 
nor  from  any  sense  of  the  beauty  of  self-sacrifice — but  from 
affection,  solely.  Lin  had  learnt  his  lesson,  had  gone  the 
whole  length,  had  shut  his  eyes  to  the  sin  for  the  sake  of  the 
sinner,  and  was  going  back  to  be  the  same  to  him  as  he  had 
been  before;  was  going  back  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
could  not  stay  away. 

He  let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key,  and  hung  up  his  hat  and 
coat  unseen  by  anyone — also,  unseen  by  anyone,  he  went  by 
way  of  the  servants'  stairs  up  to  his  room,  to  Le  Quesne's 
dressing-room. 

It  felt  like  coming  home.  He  stopped  to  make  himself 
presentable ;  twenty-four  hours  in  the  open  without  food  or  a 
wash  had  made  of  him  rather  a  ghastly  object.  He  smiled  as 
he  saw  his  own  reflection,  thinking  that  he  looked  as  ill  as  he 


364  Hnnte  Deane 

felt,  which  was  saying  a  great  deal.  The  door  between  that 
room  and  the  next  was  shut.  Everything  was  perfectly  quiet. 
Lin  sat  down  for  a  moment  to  steady  his  head,  for  it  was 
beating  painfully.  Concluding  that  the  longer  he  waited  the 
worse  he  would  feel,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  opened  the 
closed  door.  Le  Quesne  would  be  in  the  drawing-room.  Lin 
would  go  quietly  to  the  back  of  the  big  chair,  and  touch  him 
as  he  had  often  done  before.  They  would  probably  both  make 
fools  of  themselves,  but  there  would  be  little  said. 

Inside  the  door  he  stopped — why  he  could  not  have  told. 
The  black-and-gold  screen  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  hid  it  from 
him ;  the  blinds  of  the  two  big  windows  were  drawn,  though 
the  windows  were  opened  from  the  top ;  the  bed-clothes,  tidily 
folded  as  though  they  would  not  be  wanted,  were  piled  upon 
two  chairs.  With  closed  eyes  and  a  heart  upon  which  iron 
hands  seemed  to  have  put  a  sudden  pressure,  Lin  stumbled  to 
the  edge  of  the  screen  and  lifted  his  head.  The  bed  was  very 
white  and  smooth,  and  in  the  centre,  under  the  sheet,  still  and 
cold  and  peaceful,  Lindsay  Le  Quesne  lay,  with  his  uncovered 
face  turned  heavenward.  He  was  alone,  but  he  craved  no 
companionship ;  he  would  lie  in  awful  solitude  through  many 
a  day  and  night  to  come,  but  he  would  not  complain  nor 
think  himself  neglected ;  though  they  surrounded  him  with  a 
very  army  of  watchers  he  would  not  raise  his  hand  to  ask  of 
one  of  them  the  smallest  service.  Alone  or  not  alone — it  was 
all  one  to  him  now.     For  he  was — dead. 

Annie  had  been  home  to  Merryon  Square,  and  had  just  come 
back.  As  she  entered  the  hall  her  eyes  fell  upon  Lin's  hat 
and  coat. 

"  My  son ! "  she  said  frantically  to  the  girl  who  had  admitted 
her.     "  Oh,  where  is  he  ?     Who  told  him  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  startled. 

"  If  he  t's  in,"  she  said,  "  he  can't  have  been  in  two  minutes, 
and  no  one  has  told  him." 

She  staggered  past  the  girl  and  up  the  stairs.  She  had  had 
hard  thoughts  of  Lin  to-day — even  she,  the  patient  and  the 
merciful,  had  said  in  her  heart  that  God  would  punish  him 
and  that  it  would  be  just. 

But  now — she  had  only  one  thought,  to  spare  him  if  she 
could,  to  save  him  the  cruel  shock  of  entering  that  room  all 
unprepared.  Reaching  the  dressing-room,  she  saw  that  she  was 
too  late ;  the  o.her  door  stood  open — open,  as  Lin  had  left  it 
By  this  time,  then,  he — knew. 


"  ®n  a  %om  ant)  Distant  Journcg  "       365 

She  never  spoke,  nor  moved.  With  dumb  h'ps  and  hands 
pressed  hard  over  her  heart  she  stood  and  waited — Ustening — 
listening.  She  could  not  call  him^back — she  dared  not  follow 
him  through  that  open  door ;  but  as  she  thought  of  him,  she 
wished  that  she  and  the  dead  could  have  changed  places.  For 
she  knew  now  that  the  dead  had  been  dearer  to  him  than  she 
could  ever  be,  else  had  he  never  forgiven  him  so  soon  !  It 
was  not  long — perhaps  not  many  minutes,  before  the  silence 
of  that  room  was  broken  by  a  heavy  footstep  crossing  it,  by  the 
slow  closing  of  a  door  and  the  grate  of  a  turning  key.  Annie 
crept  up  close  to  the  door  then,  and,  kneeling  down,  laid  her 
cold  cheek  against  it.  Lin  must  suffer  for  his  mistake,  as  she 
had  suffered  for  hers — must  win  his  victory,  as  she  had  done — 
unaided  and  alone.  Love,  even  her  love,  could  not  help  him 
in  this  dire  extremity ;  sympathy,  even  her  sympathy,  would 
fail  to  comfort  him.  And  so,  for  a  while,  she  did  not  try  to 
comfort  him  ;  only  knelt  there  with  dry  eyes  and  aching  limbs 
and  bleeding  heart,  suffering  dumbly  pang  for  pang  with  the 
child  she  had  borne  in  love  and  sorrow. 

She  could  not  cry,  she  could  not  pray ;  could  only  wish  that 
she  were  dead — as  Ae  was. 

But  when  the  long  night  had  nearly  worn  away  she  crept 
downstairs  to  Harker,  who,  undemonstrative,  but  faithful,  had 
not  gone  to  bed. 

"  I  can't  bear  this,"  she  said  piteously.  "  I'm  afraid.  I 
haven't  heard  a  sound.  There's  other  doors  into  that  room. 
Are  they  all  locked  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  Harker  said ;  "  but  one  is  never  unlocked,  and 
so  that  key  must  be  with  mine.     I'll  see." 

He  found  the  key  and  let  her  in. 

She  felt  her  way  across  the  dark  room,  and  laid  her  hand 
unerringly  on  Lin's  bowed  head.  She  shivered  a  little  as  she 
sat  down  beside  him,  for  she  felt  that  the  dead  man's  arm  was 
round  his  neck.     She  did  not  take  it  away. 

"  Tired,  darlin',  an'  cold  ?  "  she  said  gently.  *'  You  must 
be,  kneelin'  here  !  I've  got  somethin'  to  tell  you,  that  p'r'aps 
in  time  you'll  like  to  think  about.  Harker  come  for  you  last 
night,  an'  you  wus  not  there,  so  I  come  myself  instead,  because 
I  knowed  what  had  happened.  I  was  with  him  all  the  time. 
He  couldn't  say  much,  but  once  he  tried  to  ast  me  what  wus 
wrong  with  him,  an'  I  told  him  that  the  doctor  said  it  wus  his 
heart.     He  looked  a  bit  surprised,  an'  smiled. 

"  '  It  can't  be  that,'  he  said  ;  '  I  have  no  heart  left.  Lia 
broke  it,  and  took  it  away  with  him.' 


366  annte  2)canc 

"  And  then,  Lin,  I  told  him — a  lie.  I  said  as  you'd  forgive 
him,  an'  wus  comin'  back  to  him  the  same  as  ever,  but  that  the 
findin'  out  of  things  had  that  upset  you  that  you'd  have  been 
no  good  to  him,  so  you  sent  me — instead.  An'  as  I  spoke  I 
prayed  to  God  to  make  that  He  a  truth.  *  He'll  be  back  to- 
night,' I  said ;  '  he's  only  stoppin'  to  pull  round  a  little,  so  as 
he  shan't  distress  you.' 

"  He  looked  at  me  very  hard,  but  I  never  flinched,  an'  at  last 
I  see  that  he  believed  me.  He  turned  quite  quiet  then  an' 
went  to  sleep,  an'  in  his  sleep  he  died.  So,  do  you  see,  my 
darlin',  that  he  knew  you  had  forgive  him  ?  For  you  had. 
You  come  back  to  him  just  when  I  said  you  would.  God 
beard  my  prayer,  an'  made  my  lie  come  true." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  TWO  THAT  ARE  LEFT 

It  is  a  still,  clear  afternoon  in  late  autumn,  and  the  scene  is 
shifted  back  to  the  Berkshire  village  that  we  know.  In  the 
tangle  of  bramble  and  bracken  under  the  moveless  pines  the 
children  are  searching  for  blackberries,  as  other  children  now 
grown  up  searched  in  the  years  gone  by ;  on  a  low  branch  of 
a  leafless  hazel  a  robin  is  singing  cheerily.  Away  in  the 
straggling  street  the  doors  are  open,  and  the  women,  with 
their  children  in  their  arms,  call  to  each  other  across  the  way, 
while  from  the  other  end  of  the  village  the  clang  of  the  forge 
sounds  musically.  The  Forge  Cottage  is  spick  and  span,  as  it 
was  twenty  years  ago.  The  Gloire  de  Dijon,  then  but  a 
straggling  shoot,  now  climbs  to  the  very  roof,  and  is  creeping 
round  to  the  south  wall,  where  the  yellow  grapes  hang  ripen- 
ing. The  clock  is  striking  four  as  the  blacksmith,  turning  up 
one  corner  of  his  apron,  goes  round  to  the  back  of  the  house 
and  looks  in  at  a  window.  A  pleasant,  roomy  apartment  is 
this  into  which  he  peers.  The  fire  is  bright,  the  kettle  bright 
too ;  the  square  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  is  cleared  for 
tea,  but  that  is  all  at  present,  for  it  is  not  quite  tea-time.  At 
the  table  sits  a  small  and  slenderly-made  woman.  You  might 
take  her  for  a  girl,  so  slight  is  she  and  fair ;  but  the  face  is  a 
woman's  face,  and  the  eyes  have  a  patient  look  that  does  not 
belong  to  youth.  On  her  lap,  showing  white  against  the  black 
of  her  gown,  a  folded  letter  lies — a  letter  which  begins  with 
"  My  dear  mother,"  and  ends  with  "  Yours  always,  Lin."  She 
shakes  her  head  as  she  thinks  of  him,  and  into  her  patient  eyes 
the  tears  come,  for  Lin  is  many  a  mile  away. 

How  comes  she  here  ?     That  is  easily  told. 

For  seven  years  Jim  Drake  and  Alice,  his  wife,  were 
childless;  but  after  that,  as  if  to  make  up  for  lost  time, 
children  were  born  to  them  quickly — all  too  quickly  for  the 
ailing,  irritable  mother,  and  with  the  eighth  she  died.  Then 
the  grandmother,  a  hearty,  buxom  woman  still,  said  : 

"Jim,  what  can  a  man  like  you  do  wi'  eight  children,  and 
367 


368  Hnnie  Dcane 

the  oldest  scarce  fourteen  ?  I've  got  a  thing  in  my  head. 
You  know  our  Annie  ?  Well,  I  never  told  your  poor  Alice, 
but  one  day  this  summer  our  Annie  come  home,  an',  Jim, 
we've  judged  her  wrong,  for  she's  no  bad  woman,  an'  never 
have  bin.  She've  worked  hard.  I  knows  all  about  her.  Them 
days,  when  Alice  thought  I  was  in  Readin',  I  went  to  London, 
an'  stayed  wi'  Annie  at  the  place  where  she've  bin  a'most  since 
ever  she  left  here.  I  see  the  old  gentleman — and,  Jim,  I  see 
her  son.  He's  that  quiet  and  gentle-like  with  her,  poor  thing  j 
but  he'd  never  be  at  home  wi'  humble  folk  like  us — he's  a 
gentleman,  every  inch.     Says  I  to  Annie  when  I  come  away, 

•  When  the  old  man  dies — an'  he's  a  great  age  now — what'll 
you  do,  my  gal? '  An'  says  she  to  me,  '  I  don't  know,  mother ; 
that'll  depend  on  circumstances.'  '  You'll  live  wi'  yer  son  ? ' 
says  I.     She  shook  her  head.     *  He's  trav'lin'  mostly,'  she  says, 

*  an'  I  couldn't  never  be  idle  now.  I've  thought  sometimes  as 
I'd  like  to  help  among  the  poor,  or  be  a  mother  to  some  poor 
qhildern  as  hasn't  got  one.'  Now,  Jim,  here's  jest  the  sort  o* 
thing." 

"  But,"  Jim  had  said,  "  how  about  the  old  gent,  mother  ?  " 

"  He's  bin  dead  this  three  months,  an'  Annie's  bin  wi'  her 
son ;  but  she  told  me  that  he  was  goin'  forrin  soon,  an'  then  she 
meant  to  find  some  sort  o'  work,  for  tho'  he  kep'  on  as  she 
should  go  where  he  went,  she  didn't  see  as  that  wus  really 
necessary  for  him,  an'  she  thought  as  she'd  do  better  doin'  for 
herself  at  home.  I've  wrote  an'  told  her  our  poor  Alice  is 
gone,  an'  you  mark  my  words,  Jim,  our  Annie  '11  come  an'  see 
after  your  poor  childern,  till  you  can  turn  yerself  round  a  bit" 

And  Jim  had  written  to  Annie,  asking  her. 

At  first  Lin  had  refused  to  hear  of  it,  but  Annie  meant  to 
have  her  way. 

•'  You  won't  want  me,  dear,"  she  had  said ;  "  I'd  be  dreadful 
lonely  an'  out  o'  place  travellin'  about  in  foreign  parts.  Lin, 
I  never  meant  to  go.  Whenever  you  come  back  agen,  I'll 
come  to  London  an'  keep  a  home  together  for  you,  but  now 
I'm  goin'  to  see  what  I  can  do  for  them  childern." 

And  Lin,  sorely  against  his  will,  had  taken  her  into  Berkshire 
himself. 

"  I  believe  you  are  making  a  martyr  of  yourself,"  he  had 
said  sorrowfully,  as  he  left  her  behind.  '*  I  can't  think  you  want 
to  stay  and  be  a  slave  to  a  tribe  of  rough  children." 

"  I  daresay  they  do  seem  rough  to  you,  dear,"  she  had  said ; 
*  but  they're  nice  little  things  enough,  an'  I  shan't  mind." 

She  has  been  a  good  mother  to  that  rough  tribe  for  somo- 


Ube  XCwo  tbat  arc  Xctt  369 

thing  like  three  years.  Only  once  has  she  felt  like  leaving 
them,  and  that  was  when  Jim,  having  completed  his  period  of 
mourning,  wanted  to  marry  her.     She  only  smiled. 

*'  It  isn't  lawful,  Jim,"  she  said  tranquilly. 

"  Here,  pVaps  not,  but  it's  lawful  enough  in  the  Colonies ; 
and  to  one  o'  them,  if  you'll  say  the  word,  we'll  go.  What's 
right  in  one  part  o'  the  world  must  be  right  all  the  world  over." 

"No,  Jim,  I  shall  never  go.  An'  it  was  lawful  here  to-morrow, 
I  couldn't  marry  you,  nor  any  man  besides.  An'  if  that's 
what's  in  your  mind,  Jim,  I  mustn't  stop  here  to  make  you 
unhappy." 

"You  won't  do  that,  Annie,"  said  Jim  stolidly.  "I'm  not 
such  a  fool.  Wife  or  no  wife,  I'm  more  comf'table  now  than 
ever  I  was  wi*  your  poor  sister,  for  she  wusn't  you^  nor  any- 
think  like  you.  So  we'll  let  it  be.  O'ny  I  do  think  as  it's  a 
lonely  life  for  you — slavin'  for  other  folks'  childern,  wi'  the  one 
as  is  yours  doin'  the  grand  miles  away." 

Jim  is  jealous  of  Lin,  and  always  will  be. 

"  Lin  is  very  good  to  me,"  Annie  said,  flushing.  "  If  his 
life  takes  him  far  out  o'  the  track  o'  mine,  that's  no  fault  o'  his." 

"  Well,  I  will  say,"  said  Jim  deliberately,  "  that  he  ain't  my 
idea  of  a  son.  He's  'Mr.  Warrener,'  ain't  he?  He's  no 
'  Deane.'  That  ain't  good  enough.  He've  plenty  o'  money, 
an'  as  fur  as  I  can  see,  he  keeps  it  to  hisself." 

"  You  don't  know,  Jim,  an',  for  Lin's  sake,  I'll  tell  you.  He 
haven't  plenty  o'  money ;  that  is,  not  what  people  thinks  he 
have.  He  lives  on  what  he  earns.  The  other  wus  left  him  by 
his — father,  Jim ;  but  he've  never  took  no  pleasure  in  it,  an' 
the  greatest  part  of  that  goes  to  Mr.  Netherwood  to  help  the 
poor.  He've  wanted  me  to  take  some  of  it,  often,  but  I  never 
could.  It's  his  by  right,  but  for  me  to  live  on  it'd  be  wrong. 
Besides,  Mr.  Holt  left  me  a  pound  a  week  as  long  as  I  lives, 
an'  I  don't  want  no  more." 

"  An'  you  knew  the  lad's  father,  then,  after  all  ?  " 

"  It  come  about,"  she  said  quietly,  "  through  Lin.  He  loved 
my  Lin.  Yes,  Jim,  I  lived  to  be  o'  some  little  good  to  him. 
I  was  with  him  when  he  died,  an',  when  I  see  he  was  dead,  I 
knew  my  heart  was  dead,  too.  You'll  see  now,  Jim,  why  I 
couldn't  marry  no  other  man." 

"  So  he's  dead,"  said  Jim  thoughtfully.  "  Well,  they  do  say 
as  where  he's  gone  there's  no  marryin'  nor  givin'  in  marriage." 

Jim's  personal  experiences  permit  him  to  face  this  prospect 
with  fortitude  and  resignation. 

"  An'  if  there  is,  /  shan't  be  his  wife,  Jim,  though  I  knows 

2  A 


370  annie  Bcanc 

where  to  find  her.  I've  never  spoke  to  her,  but  I've  watched 
her  once  or  twice  when  she  didn't  know  it,  to  see  what  sort  o' 
woman  Md  loved.  I  see  enough  to  show  me  why  he  could 
never  have  cared  for  me.  I  never  see  anybody  like  her.  I've 
got  good  reason  to  be  grateful  to  her,  for  I  think  if  it  hadn't 
bin  for  her  Lin'd  never  have  looked  up  agen  after  he  died.  He 
wus  like  a  broken-hearted  thing,  an'  she  seemed  to  know  how 
to  get  at  him,  where  I  didn't.  She's  an  opera  singer,  an'  it's 
her  what  Lin  has  travelled  with  ever  since.  What's  her  age  ? 
She's  older  than  me,  but  she  looks  that  young !  an*  they  say 
her  voice  is  most  as  good  as  ever.  Lin  manages  everything 
for  her — business  affairs  an'  all  that.  He  owes  her  a  lot  Her 
takin'  him  up  have  made  him.  She  won't  sing  with  anybody, 
an'  she  will  have  him  where  she  is." 

Jim  was  silent,  but  not  convinced,  having  opinions 
concerning  singers  and  their  ways  entirely  original  and 
independent.  He  has  never  since  reverted  to  the  subject  of 
marriage,  thinking  it  better  to  leave  things  as  they  are.  He 
sees  his  children  take  their  troubles  to  the  quiet  little  woman, 
sure  of  a  sympathetic  listener  ;  he  sees  them  grow  less  rough 
by  sheer  force  of  contact  with  her  gentleness ;  he  sees  them 
tell  her  the  truth  without  fear,  where  they  used  to  tell 
"mother"  untruths  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  punishments 
entirely  lacking  in  judgment,  or  of  harsh  vituperation, 
innocent  alike  of  justice  and  self-respect ;  he  sees  even  his 
eldest  girl,  pert  and  vain  as  was  her  mother,  shamed  into 
silence  by  simple  modesty  and  patience;  he  feels  the  awful 
blank  in  the  house  when  Lin  comes  home  and  "  Auntie  "  is 
wanted  elsewhere.  And  he  is  very  well  content  "  Anyway," 
thinks  Jim  simply,  **  I  can  do  a  little  for  her.  I  can  see  as  she 
haves  a  comftable  roof  over  her  head,  an'  I  knows  that  she 
shan't  want  for  anything  as  long  as  I'm  alive.  \i  she  don't  ast 
for  no  more,  why  should  I  ?  I'd  rather  things  bide  as  they  are, 
as  long  as  she's  satisfied." 

So  Jim  goes  tranquilly  about  his  work,  and  lets  the  future 
take  care  of  itself. 

When  Lin  comes  back — he  is  expected  in  the  Spring — Annie 
will  be  waiting  for  him  in  the  comfortable  London  rooms 
which  are  "  home  "  to  him  whenever  he  is  in  England.  For 
the  first  little  while  she  will  feel — as  she  always  does  when  he 
returns  after  a  long  absence — diffident  and  awkward,  a  little 
afraid  of  him,  as  of  one  with  whom  she  is  not  quite  in  touch ; 
for  the  first  few  days,  indeed,  she  will  have  much  ado  to  look 
at  him  with  anything  approaching  calmness,  so  sharply  do  the 


Ube  Uwo  tbat  ate  Xeft  371 

passing  years  accentuate  his  likeness  to  the  dead.  The  eyes 
are  his ;  the  voice  is  his ;  so  are  the  courteous  ways  and  the 
rare,  thoughtful  smile.  That  boyish  brightness  of  expression 
which  once  obscured  the  likeness  is  quite  gone  now,  banished 
for  ever  by  one  memory  which  never  sleeps.  But  after  the 
first  few  days  Annie's  strangeness  will  wear  off,  for  she  will  see 
that  under  the  surface  Lin  is  her  Lin  still,  that  without 
appearing  to  notice  her  wistful  attempts  to  seem  quite  at  her 
ease  with  him  he  will  yet  understand  everything ;  will  give  her 
a  little  time ;  but  then,  coming  quietly  behind  her,  will  say 
laughingly,  with  his  face  to  hers  : 

*'  Mother,  how  long  am  I  to  be  treated  as  a  '  distinguished 
stranger '  ?  "  After  which  she  will  have  a  quiet  "  cry,"  and  it 
will  be  all  right. 

They  will  talk  of  many  things  and  of  many  people;  he 
will  tell  her  of  his  busy  life ;  she  will  tell  him  of  her  quiet  one ; 
many  questions  will  be  asked  and  answered.  But  there  will  be 
one  name  unspoken  by  either,  and  upon  one  subject  will  they 
both  be  silent,  not  by  any  arrangement,  simply  by  mutual 
appreciation  of  the  futility  of  words.  Each  will  know  that  in 
the  heart  of  the  other  one  thought  is  uppermost,  one  longing 
unappeased,  one  sorrow  un  comforted  ;  but  they  will  bear  their 
burden  silently,  in  outward  cheerfulness — she  for  his  sake,  and 
he  for  hers. 

There  will  be  days  when  he  will  tell  her  that  he  has 
engagements,  and  will  not  be  home  until  late.  Then,  waiting 
until  he  has  left  the  house,  she  will  put  on  her  prim  little 
black  bonnet,  and  will  find  her  way  to  one  of  two  places.  If 
she  is  late  in  setting  out  she  will  go  to  the  Home,  where  the 
Sisters  will  extend  to  her  the  right  hand  of  sympathy  and 
appreciation,  and  aged  Sister  Elizabeth  will  insist  upon  keeping 
her  to  tea ;  if  she  has  plenty  of  time  she  will  go — partly  by  'bus 
and  partly  on  foot — to  quite  another  part  of  London,  will 
thread  her  way  through  a  network  of  dingy  by-ways,  courts, 
and  alleys,  until  she  comes  to  one  alley  more  dingy  than  the 
rest.  Down  this  one  she  will  go — rather  timidly,  for  the 
inhabitants  thereof  are  veritably  "  unclean."  Unclean  of 
person,  of  mind,  of  spirit,  yet  having  one  dweller  among  them, 
who,  content  to  pass  with  the  reputable  for  all  three,  is  in 
reality  neither.  Finding  her  way  up  stairs  many  and  steep, 
mended  here  with  a  scrap  of  rough  board,  there  with  a  bit  of 
tin,  and  everywhere  with  a  sublime  disregard  of  the  probability 
of  accidents,  Annie  will  knock  at  a  door  upon  the  topmost 
landing.    She  will  not  feel  sure  of  getting  an  answer,  because  the 


37a  annfe  Deane 

occupant  of  the  room  may  be  out.  Say  she  is  in,  she  will  open 
the  door ;  perhaps  impatiently,  perhaps  aggressively,  for  she  is 
a  creature  of  the  untamable  kind,  and  not  much  given  to 
surface  civility  unless  she  gets  it  in  advance.  At  sight  of  Annie 
she  will  soften. 

"You  again?"  she  will  say,  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her 
defiant  eyes ;  **  come  in — if  you  can  get  in." 

And  '*  in  "  Annie  will  go,  shutting  the  rickety  door  behind 
her. 

Perhaps  she  will  find  the  room  full  of  the  steam  of  "washing," 
the  bare  window  trickling,  the  bare  walls  in  a  ghastly  perspiration, 
the  worm-eaten  floor  soaked  and  sloppy ;  perhaps  the  washing 
will  be  over,  and  "  drying  "  will  be  the  order  of  the  day ;  then 
damp  clothes  will  cling  about  her  head  as  she  stoops  under 
the  lines  that  are  stretched  from  wall  to  wall,  and  the  window 
will  be  open,  admitting  more  " blacks"  than  breezes ;  perhaps 
there  will  be  nothing  more  depressing  about  than  an  ironing- 
board,  supported  at  one  end  by  the  window-sill,  at  the  other 
by  the  back  of  a  chair ;  then  that  interior  will  represent  dry 
desolation  instead  of  wet,  but  "  desolation  "  will  be  the  word 
for  it  all  the  same. 

Two  or  three  times  Annie  has  found  the  bed  on  the  floor  in 
the  comer  occupied  by  two  or  three  babies,  all  more  or  less 
puny  and  ill-nourished,  left  here  by  mothers  who  are  "  out  to 
work."  Sometimes  she  has  found  babies,  washing,  drying, 
ironing,  all  in  course  of  progress  at  once ;  then  she  has 
straightway  pinned  up  her  prim  black  gown,  and  set  to  work 
herself. 

"  Why  don't  I  get  out  of  this  into  a  better  neighbourhood?" 
the  tenant  of  the  room  will  say  in  answer  to  Annie's  gentle 
question.  "Where's  the  better  neighbourhood  that  will  find 
«<?  anything  to  do?  And  what  is  the  neighbourhood  to  mef 
It  can't  make  work  and  me  friends.  Do  you  think  I  like 
washing?  I  hate  it!  Do  you  think  I  enjoy  this  steaming 
place  ?  To  me  it's  a  touch  of  the  '  hereafter.'  Do  you 
think  I've  got  any  love  in  me  for  those  miserable,  sour-smelling, 
half-fed  babies  ?  No.  I  never  liked  babies,  even  up  to  the 
chin  in  lace,  and  smelling  of  scented  powder.  I  always  hated 
trouble  and  hard  work.     I  hate  it  now." 

"  But,"  Annie  will  urge  earnestly,  "  why  don^t  you  go  to  the 
Sisters?  I  do  know  they  would  help  you  to  get  something 
better  than  this." 

'•  Go  to  them  ?  Not  me  !  I  hate  them,  and  they  know  it. 
What's  the  first  thing  they'd  say  to  me  ?     *  You  must  come  in, 


Zhc  XTwo  tbat  are  Xeft  373 

and  let  us  see  that  your  repentance  is  genuine.  We  can't  do 
anything  until  we  know  that  you  have  a  new  heart,  and  have 
left  the  old  life  behind  you.'  No,  they  won't  say  that,  but 
they'll  as  good  as  say  it.  Here  I'm  wretched  enough,  but 
when  I've  done  I  can  lock  my  door  and  be  my  own  mistress. 
There's  nobody  spying  about  me,  or  making  inquiries.  I'm 
not  rung  to  bed  at  nine,  and  rung  up  at  six;  I'm  not 
*  gaolered '  by  a  couple  of  solemn-faced  girls  who  never  knew 
what  temptation  was,  and  who  wouldn't  have  given  way  if  they 
had — out  of  fear  of  being  punished.  If  I  fall  away,  I  can 
struggle  back  again  unhindered.     I've  got  my  liberty." 

"  But  you  don't  fall  away ;  I'm  that  sure  you  don't." 

"  Then  you're  the  only  one  to  l>e  sure.  No — there's  one 
besides.  I've  been  to  him  twice — once  because  I  hadn't  a 
penny  nor  a  bit  of  bread,  and  once  because  a  woman  left  her 
baby  with  me  and  never  came  for  it  again.  Neat,  wasn't  it  ? 
Made  me  think  of  the  tricks  I've  played  people  in  my  time. 
I  couldn't  keep  the  poor  brat,  so  1  went  to  Aim.  I  told  him 
where  I  lived,  and  what  I  was  doing.  Did  Ag  throw  cold 
water  on  me  ?  No  !  Did  /u  say  I  must  change  my  clothes 
before  he  could  believe  I'd  changed  my  ways  ?  Not  he  !  He 
believed  me.  '  Keep  on,'  he  said ;  '  I  told  you  I  knew  you 
better  than  you  knew  yourself.  We  work  out  our  own 
salvation  in  our  own  way.  If  your  way  is  not  my  way,  it  is  no 
part  of  my  duty  to  doubt  you  because  of  that.  If  you  want 
anything,  come  to  me ;  if  you  cannot  come,  send.  You  know 
where  I  live.' 

"  He  sent  for  the  baby  the  next  day,  and  several  times  since 
I've  had  a  note  from  him  asking  if  I  was  getting  on,  and 
whether  I  wanted  anything.  He  doesn't  come/  do  you  know 
why?  He'd  be  afraid  1  thought  he  suspected  me.  Now, 
drop  me.  Kate  Lucas  I  was  born,  and  Kate  Lucas  I  shall 
die.  *  One  of  the  hopeless  sort  I '  they  used  to  say.  Let  them 
think  so,  God  knows.  Now  tell  me  what  you  are  doing,  and 
all  about  it." 

Annie  will  tell  her  something  of  her  own  affairs,  wili  find 
something  nice  for  tea  in  the  basket  she  brought  with  her,  will 
beg  Kate  to  write  and  tell  her  if  work  fails,  and  funds  run  out, 
and  will  take  her  departure  under  Kate's  protection.  When 
they  get  to  the  end  of  the  network  of  dirty  streets  and  alleys 
they  will  kiss  each  other  publicly,  after  the  fashion  of  their 
common  kind,  and  will  go  their  separate  ways. 

On  these  days  of  separation  from  Lin,  Annie  will  feel  no 
curiosity  concerning  his  whereabouts.    If  his  engagements  are 


iu  Bnnie  Beane 

professional  she  will  know  it ;  if  not,  he  is  sure  to  be  found  at 
Miss — or,  as  she  is  usually  called,  "  Madame " — Le  Breton's 
house.  He  knows  that  house.  He  has  a  key  with  which  he 
admits  himself,  asking  no  permission ;  he  goes  upstairs  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  a  right,  gives  a  light  knock  at  a  familiar 
door,  and  is  forthwith  bidden  to  enter. 

Almost  everything  in  the  beautiful  room  he  enters  is  his, 
but  he  has  not  removed  as  much  as  one  costly  trifle,  and  it 
all  looks  much  the  same  as  it  looked  on  that  summer  night, 
now  nearly  four  years  ago.  Even  the  big  "grand" — made 
expressly  for  a  famous  singer  by  a  celebrated  house,  and 
having  his  hieroglyphic,  "  L.  A.  Le  Q.,"  inlaid  at  one  corner — 
stands  open  across  the  old  angle.  Lin  never  touches  it  He 
has  not  felt  justified  in  taking  up  his  residence  in  these  rooms — 
not  that  he  shuns  them,  simply  that  he  feels  them  to  be  beyond 
his  present  position.  So  "Madame,"  having  no  home  in  Ix)ndon, 
takes  them  off  his  hands.  When  she  is  away  they  are  closed, 
and  the  big  "  grand  "  relapses  into  silence. 

The  name  which  is  never  mentioned  between  Lin  and  his 
mother  is  yet  spoken  freely  and  lovingly  enough  here.  It  is 
the  link  between  Lin  and  the  woman  who  lives  here.  He  has 
kept  nothing  away  from  her,  and  she  has  turned  his  confidence 
to  rarely  good  account  She  has  studied  him,  puzzled  over 
him,  mastered  him,  saved  him  from  the  moral  death-trap  of 
remorse  by  urging  him  to  fresh  effort,  and  so  has  made  of  him 
what  perhaps  he  never  had  been  but  for  her.  He  sometimes 
wonders  why  he  can  talk  to  her  of  the  dead  while  he  cannot  to 
his  mother,  and  thinks  it  must  be  that  here  his  mother  is  too  far 
away — at  once  too  far  above  him  and  too  far  below.  It  is 
more  difficult  to  talk  to  the  woman  who  loved  "  not  wisely,  but 
too  well "  than  it  is  to  the  woman  who  loved  too  wisely,  and 
not  well  enough. 

He  has  altered  in  many  ways,  but  such  alteration  is  more 
below  the  surface  than  upon  it,  and  his  early  friends — the 
Hoskins,  for  instance — will  tell  you  that  he  is  just  the  same  as 
ever.  He  looks,  perhaps,  older  than  he  is ;  feels  much  older, 
wonders  sometimes  if  indeed  it  is  true  that  he  is  but  eight-and- 
twenty  !  He  gives  himself  but  little  leisure,  for  he  has  found 
that  leisure  means  regret,  and  his  is  a  nature  for  which  the 
sun  can  do  more  than  the  shade.  **  He  is  above  everything 
affectionate,"  said  one,  in  speaking  of  him  once  to  his  mother. 
He  is  affectionate  still,  but  the  springs  lie  deeper,  and  are  not 
easily  reached  by  a  strange  hand.  A  quiet  man,  though  manly 
of  word  and  deed ;   a  just  man,  but  now  most  merciful ; 


Ubc  trwo  tbat  are  Xett  37s 

naturally  impatient  of  wrong-doing,  but  ever  ready  to  extend  to 
the  wrongdoer  the  hand  of  brotherhood — he  goes  his  way, 
honestly  desiring  to  obey  a  command  the  full  significance  of 
which  he  was  at  first  too  wretched  to  appreciate. 

"  Make  of  repentance  a  future  to  be  lived  rather  than  a  past 
to  be  brooded  over." 

Those  unforgotten  words  and  Helen  Le  Breton's  influence 
have  made  him  what  he  is. 

She,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  is  apt  to  wonder  why  Love 
has  as  yet  no  place  in  his  life.  It  is  not  that  he  is  not  lovable, 
or  that  sweet  eyes  do  not  tell  him  so.  On  the  contrary,  he  is 
just  one  of  those  men  to  whom  such  eyes  are  prone  to  say  too 
much.  But  the  love  of  women  is  nothing  to  Lin.  It  is  such 
a  serious  thing,  thinks  he  :  a  thing  of  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment, and  of  life  laid  waste,  rather  than  of  gay  laughter, 
marriage  bells,  and  vows  too  lightly  spoken. 

Anyway,  Lin  is  wholly  free,  and  "  Madame  "  is  not  anxious 
to  see  him  enslaved.  For  he  is  very  dear  to  her,  and  a  woman's 
affection  for  a  man — even  though  she  be  twice  his  age,  and 
beyond  all  suspicion  of  foolishness — is  seldom  quite  impersonal. 


When  Lin's  sojourn  in  London  is  once  more  at  an  end,  he 
and  his  mother — with  many  a  kiss  and  many  a  broken  word — 
will  part ;  he,  perhaps,  with  the  keener  sense  of  loneliness. 

Far  down  in  the  Berkshire  village  the  children  will  be 
waiting  to  welcome  her;  Jim  will  have  the  cottage  all  swept 
and  garnished  for  her  home-coming,  while  on  every  side  will 
rise  the  grateful  assurance  that  she  is  of  use,  of  genuine  value, 
to  those  with  whom  she  lives.  A  meek  woman  and  unam- 
bitious, she  will  see  in  this  assurance  enough  to  make  her 
very  well  content 

And  Lin  ? 

Before  he  leaves  the  shores  of  the  "kingdom  by  the  sea,"  to 
the  love  of  which  he  was  first  awakened  by  a  voice  now  mute, 
he  will  take  his  solitary  way  to  a  spot  which — let  him  be  where 
he  may — is  seldom  absent  from  his  thoughts.  The  sound  of 
the  sea  comes  there,  with  the  weird  cry  of  the  circling  gull  and 
the  deep  boom  of  the  guns  that  welcome  England's  ships  as 
they  come  harbourwards. 

And  there  in  a  sunny  corner  is  a  grave,  bearing  upon  the 
cross  at  its  head  an  inscription  which  has  proved  to  the  many 
A  stumbling-block,  but  to  the  few  a  truth  : — 


376  annte  Deanc 

Lindsay    Le    Quesne, 

Born,  May  15th,  18 — , 

Died,  June  12th,   18 — . 
•*And  God  created  man  ...  in  the  image  of  God  created 
He  him.  .  ,  .  And  God  saw  .  .  .  that  He  had  made,  and 
behold  it  was  very  good." 


THE  END 


i'SRARVFAQUTy 


